O n e
he street outside the bakery window is silent and still, andin the hal hour just beore sunrise, as dawn’s narrow n-gers are just reaching over the horizon, I can almost believe I’mthe only person on earth. It’s September, a week and a hal aterLabor Day, which in the little towns up and down Cape Codmeans that the tourists have gone home, the Bostonians haveboarded up their summer houses or the season, and the streetshave taken on the deserted air o a restless dream.The leaves outside have begun to change, and in a ewweeks, I know they’ll mirror the muted hues o sunset, althoughmost people don’t think to look here or all oliage. The lea peepers will head to Vermont, to New Hampshire, or to theBerkshires in the western part o our state, where the oaksand maples will paint the world in ery red and burnt orange.But in the stillness o the o-season on the Cape, the swayingbeach grass will turn golden as the days grow shorter; the birdsmigrating south rom Canada will come to rest in great focks;the marshes will ade into watercolor brushstrokes. And I willwatch, as I always watch, rom the window o the North StarBakery.