Yesterday there were dozens of robins in the yard. I watched awhile as they pogoed across the bristly brown remains of the grass. One yanked an incautious worm out of the baked earth. They must have flocked on their way south. The temperature topped out at 91 F yesterday. It's hard to believe autumn is only a few days away, even though the robins know it.

Early autumn weather suits me perfectly, most years. Warm but not too warm. I'd enjoy the season more if it didn't presage the winter's cold and snow, if spring followed instead. Mary and I have already begun to stock the shelves for those January and February days when we're certain to be snowed in. Come to think of it, I'd enjoy spring more if it didn't lead to the summer's heat. A year of nothing but springs and autumns would be my ideal.

Allowing what's yet to come to ruin the pleasure of the present is a bad trait, I know. Still, I wish we could adjust the seasons at least a little, the way we adjust the clocks for Daylight Savings Time. (However, I really, really don't like darkness moving in earlier) Of course that's what the robins are doing by migrating -- changing the season to one they prefer. Some people fly south in the winter too, I've been told.

We're halfway though the novel now. Winter's a good time for rewrites. Or maybe even late autumn.