I am packed to leave for Pensacola. The refrigerator in its emptiness looks so sad. Buck and I talked last night and decided to wait to go until Saturday morning. That will give us enough time to have my car checked, give Maggie a bath, and visit with a few friends here that we have sorely neglected recently. Time to close a few loops. This migration is not like a trip with a plane ticket. No one will cancel our ticket. We come and go when we’re good and ready. My kind of travel.
A dramatic transition is coming. I feel it in my bones. The weather report signals it, too. Today: warm, in the 70’s, low about 47; but after midnight, 35-40 mile per hour winds will begin to blow, taking every remaining leaf off this mountain top. We may hear the cracking of trees, like rifle fire. It will be a northerly wind. Tonight’s low temperature will be tomorrow’s high.
Come let us mock at the great
That had such burdens on the mind
And toiled so hard and late
To leave some monument behind,
Nor thought of the leveling wind.
From Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen, by William Butler Yeats