Yesterday there was a glass-thin layer of ice across a leaf-packed tub of water on the disc golf course David and I walked with Sam as he somehow got discs to angle around corners and find open lines through trees. The sun was bright but winter felt close by.
This morning I ran by small ponds skimmed with ice. Now the sun is setting behind the silo in the old farmyard, at least 45 degrees down the horizon from where the last light disappears behind trees in June. Darkness takes up more and more of every day.
But the pasture across the street still has a sheen of green, grass not yet entirely done for the season, though not enough for the cows to eat. They romp and bellow as they come to the hay trough that’s parked in front of our house, right under my study windows. A daily show I never get tired of. Like watching a fire or moving water, having animals live across the street, in clear view, is calming.
Almost exactly three weeks from now the sun will begin to travel back up the horizon. It’s a relief to be that close to the light cycle turning around yet again. It will continue to get colder, the ice will thicken and eventually hold and hopefully bear weight for skating or skiing.
But there will be more light. And cows.