like a blur

Eesh. Two months, and they passed like a blur.

It's almost-fall today in Georgia. The sky is gray and a little wet. The students are wearing more jeans than shorts. The dogwood leaves have turned brown-red and fallen. Soon, the pecan and live oaks will go brown, or what passes for brown, and we will have to close the windows at night. For now, it's enough to put an extra blanket on the bed and wake to a chill.

Another semester, another daily grind of online teaching and hard-copy essays. Red pens, flannel shirts, leftovers packed into matching containers for lunches. The house is a series of small victories: finally, a new screen in the one window that didn't have one and air whooshes down the hallway. The front room, decked out in furniture my brother couldn't take to California, has a guest bed and a world map. I have been re-reading books I've already read, and some new ones that changed me a little. The poetry manuscript keeps making its endless rounds, but at least new work has found a home or two.

It's been a good semester for music, too. When we moved here, we thought perhaps the bands would come through Savannah, but they rarely do; too many art school kids, maybe, or just not worth stopping south on the way from Charleston to Atlanta. So instead, we have been driving: to Atlanta to see The National; to Jacksonville to see Frightened Rabbit and Augustines; to Athens to see Son Volt. How good it feels--how good it's always felt--to stand with a beer in one hand, dripping its condensation on my oldest shoes, and press in to hear.

And on a Friday night, we gathered in the kitchen and had another Libras, Gettin' Older party. There were some new friends, and some old ones. The cakes were the same as the year before. Carrot with cream cheese, almost-flourless chocolate, white buttercream. The dog sat on a chair. It was enough to drink beer from the new growler station in town, and make a little sampler of cakes, and enjoy where we are, this place we call home.