A friend recently asked how I could possibly love October. I suppose it's …
a coastal valley inundated by a tsunami of evening light, heartbreakingly yellow except that your heart was broken three times earlier that day, by seventy-five blue-eyed degrees, the carefree sea lion surfing dreadlock curls, a tiny chipmunk skull she slipped into your empty mushroom basket,
red clown tears of vine maple who know they will soon become November gnomes, naked and twisted beneath overlords of fir and hemlock,
that first gentle please-bring-more rain to moisten drought stricken duff, tender not-really-enough rain for salmon to run for sex to die or swell the shriveled chanterelles and papery moss hiding a chalky elk bone,
a torrent of apples rumbling from wheelbarrow to homemade wooden boxes,
a reckless lover you should have left long ago but need their energy even though you know they always dump you heartbroken in a November downpour,
an anxiety dream that leaves you beached and salty and sad and glad it’s over but wondering why it came,
shrinking days and stretching darkness that jack your brain chemistry around and make you hope to live and someday die in October, warm sun orange through closed lids.