It was fine to walk out the back door and wander. I remembered a physical therapist telling me, as she worked on my back, "You're a goal-directed person, aren't you?" as if that were not such a good thing. When I think of word "goal," I see a football fly between the posts or a ball hit the net. Without a goal, I went up to Hills Pond and let my eye latch on for a moment to whatever gave me pleasure, like these cattails, intricate, fading, lush.
The air was mellow with the smell of fallen leaves just beginning to rot. The smell of fall. The Japanese maples were winey red; a black dog strained on the leash, and though there's a leash law in this town, I wanted the owner to unhook the leash as I've unhooked mine.
