All the sailboats in the harborface north. I can see twenty-fourfrom your study window.Overhead, large white birds fly aroundin the September glow.The sky is baby blue without a single cloud.The house at 25 Main Street finally sold.Isn’t that where Venture Smith lived?He was the son of a prince, who purchasedhis freedom. History cannot be unlived.Chez Perenyi, I visited David’s ashesunder a chestnut where edible mushrooms,Phallus ravenelii, now grow, and Libby,a rescue dog from Tennessee,nuzzled me and licked my lashes.At the farmers market, the cheesemongercouldn’t stop talking. A young man at Nana’s bakerygave me a brioche and smiled kindly.And Mrs. Purity, of Purity Farm (I love her peaches),stepped right out of a small Dutch painting.All night, I hear the clinking halyard lines.Before dawn, I buy a coffee at Tom’s Newsstand,then sit with your big Petit Larousse, La Fontaine,and my ardor. September is a time to feel the light,write, scratch out, write, nap, walk, begin again.I am too afraid of jellyfish to swimwith Jonathan out to the breakwater;instead, I sit with Penny at her longdining table and eat beef bourguignon.You make me feel I almost belong.