The sun strikes the earth at peculiar new angles, as if it had nothing better to do than to bathe the pumpkins on every porch in the soft autumn light.
The landscape slowly changes as the Master Artist wills it into those deep, warm, ancient colors.
So now it’s long sleeves, jeans, and boots. fitting and feeling like an old friend.
The sweet bourbon scent of burning wood, rising from a dozen chimneys. While somewhere in the distance a chainsaw whines.
Mothers take their kids apple picking, bringing back bushels of sweet treasure. like pirates returning from a raid.
Our home, filled with the intoxicating smell of a crock pot full of beef and vegetables.
The familiar sound of the high school football game washes over the town. And the low echo of the marching band seems to come from all directions.
The maples and the poplars and the oaks, nudged by the wind, gently applaud. As if the very trees approve of it all.