In late autumn, right before the snow coats the ground with the cold, hard truth of winter, moose visit our yard to devour the crab apples sagging off our tree.

By this time of year the apples are half fermented, and after they eat the moose slump in the yard with serene looks across their ridiculous faces. I don’t know if they are actually serene but they appear to be caught in that buzz that comes after a small high, that loosening of inhibitions and the way worries blur and nothing matters but the here-and-now, the aftertaste of apples mixed with the cold comfort of our grassy yard.

My partner and I sit by the window and watch the moose. Sometimes we watch for a long, long time. It’s magical to see moose in one’s yard, to know that these hulking animals (and trust me, when you encounter one in the dark you suddenly realize how massive they are) with wild brains and wild urges share a small connection with us, even though they don’t give a damn about this connection. Knowing they don’t give a damn endears me to them ever the more.

Sometimes late at night when I’m writing and the house is silent and the dog sleeps by my feet, I think of moose out sleeping in our yard or the woods or up by the mountains and always, always this comforts me.

Other news: I’ve signed up for NaNoWriMo which, for those of you who don’t know, stands for National Novel Writing Month. I hope plan to write like hell and complete a shitty first draft of my next novel, a feminist horror story set in a small Alaska town at the end of the road system.

Loved this: I can’t get enough of Maria Adolphs’ creative nonfiction piece “Cafe au lait” over at Six Hens. Reading it made me want to write nonfiction again, and today I sat down and began a new piece. I love the initial beginnings of creative nonfiction, the way I’m forced to confront myself, to peel off my layers and, naked and unadorned, grope my way through the whole messy writing process.