And that's the last of bottom we shall see this year

It is a light, clear, cool day; it feels like autumn, especially the way the sun fills the living room not quite colorlessly, but not with the hot pour of summer, either. The leaves are all sharp-lit beyond the balcony, restless in the wind; inside, ratatosk's houseplants are green filters, rice-paper shadow screens. I still have, after too many years, the sense that I should be getting to classes: my finger will start to callus from handwriting, I'll walk a lot of the day. I don't know when that will fade. I don't think, right now, it hurts too much. That's fragile and I'll take it.

This is the first year since I was very small that I have not baked honeycakes, because of moving. It's no less the new year.

L'shanah tovah, all.