The garden and the gardener are getting weary.
The birds are very quiet, their songs don't greet me in the morning and they seldom answer each other call, the woods are silent except for scurrying chipmunks and the breeze.
Leaves that were stressed by the long dry spell have already turn color, and are beginning to fall.
Gone are the pastel flowers of spring and summer, robust gold, reds, oranges and purples have taken their place. the light has turned a bit more golden and the sky a slightly deeper blue, but it is still not the crisp clear autumn sky. There is still some of summers steady pace before the, furious pace of bringing in the harvest, and preparing for winter.
Even though we have left behind the need for "stocking up for winter" it remains a part of our lives, and more a part of out culture.
I find a rare beauty in these betwixt and between days, no matter what seasons they are betwixt and between, the subtle transitions in color and the impending harvest, the quiet, which at first seem eerie, but then comforting. The lightness of the air and the depth of the suns illumination.
I feel enrobed in the turning of the seasons, and life.
