A Drive in the Country While the Time Changes

Late fall in New England is a shaking off of skin. What was ruddy is a skeleton. The vestiges of what was once green and sunny whip away in the wind. On short country straightaways, lines of trees reach out with gnarled limbs to pull us into the raw.

At the end of October, porches don't creak with the weight of lingering feet. The heat is all from within, where fires or televisions crackle in a bluish light. Dead leaves spin in a vortex of crisp dustiness against the cavities of gabled homes. Tiny goblins hang from trees. If you listen closely, you can hear the ringing of so many phones in support of local politicians on both sides of a hotly contested race.

We drive calmly, as always. The dog presses her nose against a window that is viscous from sightseeing. The baby sleeps in her carseat. I turn onto another road designated "scenic." There are flanneled farm stand attendants hawking gourds. I can tell they are closing up. With a nudge to the heat knob on a many buttoned console, I check the baby again in the rear view. Everything is fine. We head home.