Moisture hung on the leaves, in the air, inside the mushroom caps. The creek ran swiftly in the valley. Its sounds came to me in the heavy air. The granite stones, topped with green moss, were slippery beneath the soles of my hiking boots. I laid the Ann Patchett novel down I was reading. Inhaled. Tasted the air. Drank the smells of recent rains with more to come. All was still except the sounds of waters running in the valley. I picked up the novel again, zipped it up in my ruck, grasped my hiking poles. Took my bearings. Continued to feast.

Soul food in September. My cup overflows.