Here at the fading edge of summer, the lush greens and yellows of the fields have given way to breathy shades of cream and parchment.
Even the sound of the wind in the grass is different now, a dry rattle and a crackling underfoot where so recently it whispered and stroked us gently as we passed.
The earth all around is turning inward, even as it sends out seed for summers to come.
The vegetable garden, planted much too late, is producing a desperate deluge, an embarassment of riches in cucumber currency. Each day is a little shorter. The pumpkins may not ripen by frost.
The spring babies are on their own now. Young deer, rabbits, birds, and groundhogs wander about like teens at a mall, unwise and fearless.
Would they despair, I wonder, if they knew about winter?
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