An old oak grows on the sloping lawn in front of the house. We’ve spent the last few hours gathering its leaves into baskets and hauling them to the garden.
A few leaves still cling tenaciously to the branches. They won’t let go until they’re forced off by the new growth of spring. The rest of them lie scattered on the ground to remind us of our work.
The last green of summer is fading from the grass.
The sun has set and the moon has risen into a darkening purple sky over the red barn east of the house.
In front of the face of the yellow moon a formation of geese honk their way to the south over the woods.
Our white two-story farmhouse sits on a hill on the margin of our woods.
We stacked a bit of wood on the porch and within we are warm and secure and preparing supper.
…Or so I imagine when I look at the beautiful John Sloane painting I have chosen for a background image on my laptop in our little house in the suburbs just south of Detroit.
I love the work of John Sloane. I buy his calendar every year. When I turn the new page each month I have a cherished ritual. I stand for a quiet moment and I imagine myself in the picture, then I go back to work. I often write using Evernote. I make a narrow window to write in and around the edges I can see a beautiful painting of John Sloane. It’s like I am in the picture.