the beaver moon rises huge against the horizon, butting impatiently, massive in the orange afternoon, making way for twilight. the last leaves cling pathetic; having refused to fall in their post-green glory, they scratch mousy protest against the wind’s encouragement. i trimmed the grape vines back today, in preparation. now, in air absurdly crisp i stand, pink-nosed, bouncing on my toes with wind-beaten tears threatening escape, watching the plovers skitter over their glassy wet dominion. when does it get too deep for them to stand, in this sheen where the land ends, calm fresh waters meeting the sea. seagulls land nearby, swimming, wading. a few wander among the busy-footed, shore-obsessed flock, resembling shepherds somehow. they fly low again out to the surf then back to sandy business. the plovers, maybe sandpipers too, continue flitting to and fro. have all the geese departed?