Roberto Spellman sez Jesse Villapando sez local lore sez the winter snows will reach the same height as summer’s sunflowers in which case we’ll be slogging through seven-foot drifts

by Christmas, but meanwhile we’re wishing it had been cold enough to pop the poplars

and the oaks for a little color before we had to leave; the aspen* got going, but slowly.

It was certainly sufficiently crisp to feel like fall and, though generally not shown, Wetness

added to the chill as did awaking many mornings in a cloud which some days burned off as soon as the sun poked over the ridge but other times lingered on in daylong miserable drizzles.

One perfect near-Indian summer morning we made a last trek to the LoPine and looked out over the hazy valley [not shown] while the clank and roar of an ongoing desecration project only slightly drifted up to us…

Later we were at Bill and Muriel’s where the historic demolition of the now interior kitchen wall

was getting underway…

…at which point it began pouring heavily and steadily until sundown’s rainbows, making for a

good afternoon for drawing.

Second-to-last day we went to Dean’s for goodbyes before beginning closing up and,

with laundry about to go online, the rain returned.

[not rain]

Friday, already sore, a last walk to “the steps” with the pals in brilliant mountain sunshine

before finishing the packing, loading and cleaning in earnest [not shown, but…].

End of chapter, end of daze.  Tomorrow: eleven hours on the road until the Border.

• I use the singular in deference to their/its clone-ish behavior