This Moment: 7:59 - November 6, 2011.

Back under the covers. A thin scurf of snow fans across the front lawn. Trees are still heavy with fruit and leaves. It is the in-between of seasons. Fall has yet to cede to Winter. It is difficult to let go. Geranium blooms hold the first trace of frost and their fuchsia will retreat into withered browns by day's end. I hear the dryer whirring, a periodic clang of metal on metal. The blue spruce across the street is frosted with snow and appears to be auditioning for a spot on a holiday show. The small dog is foraging in the trash. I call to him to stop. Silence, then the bells of his tags, and he enters the room holding a paper towel that smells of bacon grease. I take it from him. He watches me throw it into the outside bin, happily follows me back to the bedroom. He jumps on the bed for a quick pet and then positions himself to guard his territory from passing cars and joggers. Dogs are creatures of the moment, they don't hold grudges. I should learn from them, drop my heavy bags I've been carrying all these years and focus on the moment, this moment: a train humming down the track, the morning light on yellowing leaves, crisp air that fills the empty spaces.