I don’t want to write right now. Don’t want to look. Not at the field out my window, bright for harvest. Don’t want to hear the river across the field still running high in this wet year. Don’t want to look for cranes sailing in from sky to field or try or sit still with rabbits in the yard. Don’t want to see the willow turn from green to silver as the wind turns its leaves. Don’t want to look toward the mountains and feel their height and the wild of their depth. I don’t want to see the mist roll in marking summer’s move toward fall and shorter days, or the grass in the patch we don’t mow waving better than the ocean we’ll be returning to. Everything marks the ache of leaving.