A squirrel hops in arcs across our backyard and then stops for a moment. Poised on his back legs, paws daintily pressed together, he peers through the window, looking at me as though he's about to deliver a quaint little speech. I listen very intently, and I'm almost certain I can hear his oration:
The year has tipped beyond its peak,
Another summer wanes,
We see it in the Queen Anne's lace
And in the drizzly rains.
I start my scurries to and fro,
As nuts and fruit expand,
(But still we'll have warm days ahead,
in this fickle pacific land.)
I walked the pond yesterday, and couldn't help but notice the signs of an ever-so-gradually waning summer. (Even more so today, which is grey and drizzly.) I love the fall, so it's with joy and anticipation that I notice the tidings that declare: autumn will come in its time. The first of the Queen Anne's lace . . . the blackberries turning from green to red to purple . . . the filberts expanding slowly but surely.
How lovely and reassuring to watch the seasons bend from one to the next, generously sharing their glories with each other.
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