One evening last week I went out to the patio to start the grill. It had been a dazzling day, hot and blue with a stormy interruption in the late afternoon. Now the evening lay quietly in my backyard, clear and hushed. In the distance, crickets chirruped and cicadas droned. A waning golden light brushed the trees against the fence. Green leaves ripped from their stems along with a few early fall browns mottled the patio table, were stuck in the grill knobs, and generally created a feeling of tattered negligence.
The air was fresh and lovely after the rain, and I stood a while, gazing at this secret garden, both grateful and reluctant. A blur of moments had led to this one, and I tried to be awake enough to receive it and let it go at the same time.