Rustling, rustling, it’s all rustling just outside in the night, which has deepened abruptly into a different, darker season, as all the fireflies have been extinguished, the plants are pondering the thought of frost, the moody cars on the street are collecting fallen leaves on their windshields, the windchimes have taken to muttering weakly, and the sailing rainclouds are interspersed with a gaunt brilliance. Behind the rustling is a continuous lower roar, a hushed wave of noise that stands still in the sky of the ear. The pages of Talia’s book almost crow and scrape as they turn, and the old windows cramp and rattle in the gusts. Things start to feel solid again: houses and children and restless thoughts. But even when things seem solid, how can you know you can trust the foundations, without seeing them rattled in a gale? I didn’t write much today but I walked in the woods—one of those oceanic experiences—nobody else was out in the chilly afternoon—the cattails puffed up from the swamp and little paths emerged suddenly where you hadn’t seen them before—and suddenly everything was too slow and too quick to write about, it seemed like.