The swift grey sky is littered with crying birds. The trees sing of wind that has grown dark and heavy, coming in over farmlands. I have thrown away my broken umbrella and am sitting in uncertain shelter, writing story titles in an old notebook. Sometimes I do this - just story titles, nothing more. They clutter, clutter, in my heart.
Autumn has turned abruptly cold. One moment too hot for comfort, the next requiring quilts, luscious, warm, and beloved, drawn from the hot water cupboard. Walking home in the rain, I get bananas - in the summer habit of fruit. But they will end up in a cake, I just know it. There's nothing nicer than a house warmed by the fragrant heat of an oven with a cake rising inside it.