Our early autumn is dust and dried earth, wild grasses made gold by the heat. Branches low and heavy, fallen fruit rotting among the ditches and furrows. In September we drove north, out of the city, meeting high sun in the orchard and a measured coolness in the barn. Press and plow were still, half lost in shadow. We left with a jug of cider, passing through the yard outside where they were setting up for a wedding, stringing cafe lights in the trees.