The air shifts, carrying a new coolness that prickles the skin.
Grass now stands thick where yesterday it wilted. In the forest, the undergrowth hardens into woody stems, bent with the weight of seeds. These are no longer spring’s tender offerings—this is summer’s final testament.
Blackberries swell, dark and sweet, drawing a pair of skunks to feast beneath the brambles. Overhead, the canopy releases its first gifts: acorns strike the earth, pinecones spiral down, hickory nuts rattle through leaves, and black walnuts thud against roots, sending squirrels into frenzied preparation.
The first true autumn morning arrived with last night’s chill. Open windows drew the forest’s breath across my bed—honeysuckle and damp earth mingling with cricket pulse and tree frog trill. I slept beneath a heavier blanket while the cooling woods exhaled in relief.
At dawn, my caretaker brings the insulated vest. Without it, the patio air bites through thin fabric. As light spills across the valley, a chickadee’s winter melody rises—unexpected, clear. The robins’ liquid summer song has faded, yielding to sharper voices, better tuned for ice.
Deer wade through morning mist to graze the lawn’s clover. The spotted fawns have vanished. In their place, long-legged youngsters bound through games of chase, their markings faded to match their mothers’ coats. They know only endless summer, expect nothing else. Their mother shifts to fresh clover, drawing them back to the urgent work of feeding. She remembers snow.
Listen.
The fevered drone of noon cicadas—gone.
The katydids’ nightlong arguments—silenced.
The fireflies that jeweled the thicket—extinguished.
Spring’s promises, summer’s wild vigor—all withdrawn into memory.
And yet, this is the season of fullness.
Maturity bears fruit. What was borrowed returns to its source. Seeds scatter to waiting soil. Leaves prepare their golden descent to feed next spring’s emergence. The sweetness gathered from the sunlight of a thousand summer days flows back into the earth.
The great withdrawal approaches. Sap will retreat from the branches, revealing the hidden fire beneath green masks. Frost will still the night singers. The catbirds and hummingbirds will yield the valley to chickadees, cardinals, and jays. The world will empty itself, rest, and dream of renewal.
But, not yet.
Not yet.
One Response
You’ve captured the journey of a lifetime in one fading afternoon. To me, it speaks of a quiet acceptance, unresentful of the passage of time, yet still deeply aware of the cacophony of mortality. I imagined the clatter of kettlebells, the echo of distant trumpets… a strange orchestra reminding us the curtain always falls, eventually.