A big storm is its way.
The rumor of heavy rain shudders through hundreds of yellowing leaves, gossiping away out my window.
Today will be inside for us chickens. We will cluck here with a hammer, cluck there with a paintbrush, and finally squawk for a hot cup of soup at lunchtime.
Yesterday was outdoors.
I love the way children see a pile of leaves as an invitation.
Adults (like me) have to work at forgetting the dirty bowls of oatmeal in the sink. We have to willfully ignore the 24 thousand toy pieces left for maybe later maybe not and so loudly out of context or the fact that we have not yet figured out dinner.
"Jump in with me, Mommy!"
My mind goes back inside to where I know the hermit crab's dish needs more water, the phone is ringing and Thank You notes for Grayson's birthday gifts go unwritten one more afternoon.
"Throw them up in the air like rain, Mommy!"
I sit down.
Consider my options.
And throw some leaves high into the air.
And as far as I know, there are no piles of leaves on the moon.
At least not the kind of leaves you will love.