It’s September. I can hardly believe it.

It’s gloomy here today. A tree crew will arrive shortly to tend our maples, black walnuts, and catalpa trees (or not? It looks like rain).

On our dog walk yesterday, just as I was hearing the words in my head, “it’s not likely a residential program would’ve saved him, even in the short term,” I found this feather.

The feather wasn’t lying flat. It was sticking straight up as if placed there, stuck in dried mud next to the curb.

Confirmation? Communication, as in permission to release blame, coming from the other side? Maybe.

I’m planning to give my grief talk a rest here, but I wanted to share this first.