In lieu of talking about the debate last night,

which I found exceedingly boring, let's talk about the yellow snow on my lawn and the fact that every year in October these flowers from this tree fall and coat nearly everything, leaving a trail in the house that leads to every bedroom. Let's talk about one of them nestled in the curl of hair above Sophie's ear, yesterday, and how when you turn on the car and head down the street, the flowers on the windshield fly off and pass the side windows in a yellow flutter. Let's talk about the yellow flowers that look soft but crunch underfoot, a precursor to the sycamore leaves that still hang, intrepid and brown on the trees that line the street. Let's talk about how this happens every October, without fail, and shut out the mouths yapping all over the place, the morning after, including my own.

These are the days that must happen to you.  -- Walt Whitman