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autumn.

All of our hurricanes are doubly named: the word hurricane is from Huracan, the one-legged Maya god of the storm, so any additional description merely modifies. Would people respond differently, I wonder, if all hurricanes were the same? There is solidarity, often, in survival, and I imagine it would feel different were we all huddling from the same capricious cyclone.

Today, on the other coast, fall came, or at least this was the first afternoon I noticed cinnamon drifts of leaves loitering against sidewalk cracks. Today I am working, slowly, on a paper about criticism and the poetic imagination, but my mind is as obstinate as a cat: when I am outside I would rather be in, and writing, and when I am inside, I would rather be otherwise.

Sometimes I wonder whether satisfaction ever truly refers.