The more I go on in the twenty-first century, the more I want to go back to a landline and a typewriter. Every digital character becomes an attempt to insist myself into an alien realm. I distract myself in late August by pondering the changes in the greens of the leaves. Sometimes the difference is simply the way the light hits; sometimes it’s the chlorophyll leeching out of the leaves. But I like to notice the gradual draining into orange and red and yellow and brown, and that precise moment when the leaves wear their last green of the season.
