We've had close to an inch of rain over the past couple of days, filling up the birdbath and washing summer's dust from the leaves and flowers. My roses, which only last week were stretching and preening in the warmth of 89 degrees, have bowed their lovely faces to the weight of rain and wind that have bombarded them.
Aspen leaves tumble wildly from the sky, chasing each other down the street in excitement at their freedom, landing on our lawn like confetti at a political convention.
The fruit on the dogwood is turning a bright red, as if in preparation for an early Christmas.
I hear the wind soughing through the high branches of our majestic fir trees. Fir cones blow down, rattling across the roof to an ignominious resting place among the flattened grasses and seed husks left by the birds and squirrels that brightened our lost summer days.
The leaves on the vine maples are beginning to turn as these lovely, graceful trees gird themselves against the loss of sunlight and warmth. Soon, they, too will float to the ground, landing thickly beneath barren branches and providing warmth for their own roots this winter.
Later today, I'll bring in the season's first load of firewood. Tonight I'll bask in the heat from the woodstove, enjoying the fragrant reward of last summer's back-breaking efforts.
To everything, there is a season. (Ecclesiastes 3:1a)