Almost, now, I can remember the sound of the screech owl at random moments of the day. With windows still open and the September quiet settled in, I've been hearing the owls through the night, several of them it seems, imprinting themselves on my mind as I doze and turn and rise to consciousness enough to hear them, then sleep again.
Now, with time shifting, it's just past six and the owl out back is making its fluttery sound. The moonflowers are opening, the crickets have begun. I'm shifting, too, wrapping up the day at an earlier hour so that now, at six, the plum tart is cooling on the board and I have swum, showered, and am hanging in the hammock watching the massive slow march of clouds across the window of trees in this landscape that is mine -- that has lent itself to me -- a painting in my heart, owls, crickets, the occasional osprey piercing by and all.