Last Sunday was a warm day. One of our daughters and some of our granddaughters were here, and we played outside: Red Rover, and Simon Says, and my personal favorite, Mother, May I? We went for a walk, scuffling through dry leaves on the edge of the street; one of the girls got out a bike and rode through them, crunching and rustling.
In the back yard, along the ravine, the trees seem to be afire, orange and red and gold, throwing off sparks every time the wind blows leaves down. Even the weeds seem to be lit from within. Rosebushes are covered with buds and fragrance, and the cosmos and zinnias bloom brightly, as if they know the stingy sun will withhold its warmth soon.
It stays dark in the morning now, til well past the time we usually get up, and gets dark earlier in the evening, now. We are just sitting down to dinner as the first stars begin to shine.
The temperature drops into the 50s, and we pull jackets from the closet. Mourning summer, it's hard to remember autumn's cozy consolations. Yet no matter how carefully we keep our calendars, watch our clocks, count the minutes, time passes, and so does summer.
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