This year’s leaves are finally starting to fall, though at least half of them are still holding on. Last evening, amid a few sprinkles and booms of thunder, the wind picked up and roared through. I heard branches falling on the roof of the cabin—nothing major.
Baby Dog didn’t seem to notice, but Dog woke up, ears at attention, at the first clap of thunder. I didn’t get a storm, so he soon relaxed and went back to sleep.
This morning, I found dead leaves swirled onto the front porch, ankle-deep and brittle.