Yellow slanting sunrise, arriving late. Last third-generation Monarchs waking, chowing down on butterfly bushes; they're not long for this world, and the fourth generation -- the ones who hatch out in Sept., spin their cocoons, and when they're butterflies in Oct. fly to Mexico, hang in the trees all winter, and then head back in March to become next year's first generation -- are right now eggs on the milkweed. The sumac, always the first to change, has gone crimson in a few tiny places. In this morning's sweatshirt-worthy, chilly air, the geese circled in a ragged V, practicing. Squirrels are -- or, a single squirrel making lots of trips is -- charging across the porch with fat green nuts from someone's tree across the street, to bury in our backyard. This is a weekend, for us, of stripping the beds; restoring the furniture to the (inevitably less sensible) places the landlords had it when we got here; eating slightly unbalanced meals from the odds and ends in the fridge; and generally sweeping and tidying. Last swims, last visits, last bike rides. So long, North Fork. See you in the spring.