It's Friday afternoon, nearly six, and I am sitting outside on my back deck (porch, a Southerner would say, but what I call my porch is on the front of the house, has a roof and a cement floor). The deck is redwood, is next to Jim's studio and near the scuppernong grape arbor. A palm tree grows at one end, ginger lilies bloom between the house and the steps.
The air is ever so slightly, delightfully cool. Shadows fall across the back garden, my art garden, except I haven't put much art in it lately. My beloved departed cat, Tinks, was mauled to death by pit bulls there; my sweet dog Belle, killed by a car on Thanksgiving night four years ago, is buried there. Our dog Lucy's pen backs up to the fence. There's a space between the slats she sticks her snout through.
Shamrocks are blooming back there, as is a blue hydrangea. Everything else is deep green. The avocado tree I started from the pit of one I ate now reaches the roof. Elephant ears lean against the railing like pets.
And everywhere, everywhere are acorns, dropped from the great, overarching live oak tree. Squirrels take delight. I mean to sweep.
It's so pleasant to sit out here with my coffee (thanks, Jim) and my mail (Target has finally opened around the block. I get paid Monday!)
There are no mosquitoes. That's why I am able to do this. Autumn is lovely, even in Savannah.