The cold was sharp, thirty degrees but feeling like twenty-five. The coldest morning yet.

Burt and I walked out early, his breath puffing white in the frozen air.

The low sun came flat through the timber, hitting the maples until they burned a hard, clean red against the dark pines. The leaves were stiff with frost and crunched under my shoes.

A good, October morning in Maine. The sense of what’s to come. Just the dog, the golden light, and the cold staying in your lungs for a bit.