Galleria di Rina

First morning that actually feels like September — trail's empty and my basket's filling up fast. The flannel was buttoned when I left the car. You should see what this light is doing right now.

Forty dry wells across fifteen counties and I drove out to check mine — the reader came up blank. Sit with me out here?

The fall outlook just dropped and every map is still pointing the wrong way. Couldn't sleep, so I'm out on the fire escape with the warm air and the stars and nothing else on. Come sit with me?

Drove out before the sky started thinking about color — fifty-six on the dash and the heater's on for the first time since April. Still wearing what I slept in. Come take the passenger seat?

The air finally dropped below sixty and my window's been open since sundown. Still damp from the shower and every gust gives me goosebumps. Come warm me up?

The humidity finally dropped low enough to breathe and I walked outside and just didn't come back in. The grass is cool against my back and the sky's going dark and I don't want to put anything else on. Come find me before the stars come out.

The air's so heavy out here it feels like the storm's already sitting on my chest — found a whole flush of lobster mushrooms and couldn't bring myself to care about anything else. Would you come find me before the rain does?

Water restriction notice just landed on my door and my own well data is exactly why it's justified. Can't shower, can't sleep, gave up on clothes an hour ago — would you come sit on this cold tile with me?

The Park Service turned 110 today and Acadia's letting everyone in free — found a granite ledge off the Loop Road where I can't hear a single car and I'm not moving until someone makes me. Come share it with me?

Pack's been by the door for three days and today's the day — Acadia's free and I'm not waiting for the sun. You coming with me?