“Autumn, the year’s last, loveliest smile.”–William Cullen Bryant
The farm is exploding with the simple joy of Fall. The scents are an intoxicating mix of drying corn leaves, dusty weeds; the air so buoyant it feels like a carnival.
Fall has it’s own mix of flowers; washing over the land to collide with the changing of the leaves upon the trees
A walk, or ride, or to work on the land is like staring into a world being created by Picasso or Dr. Seuss.
The nights are cool, with morning bordering on cold
The golden corn sings and sighs in the breezes and protests mighty in heavy winds
A storm came in on Wednesday the air hazy with the promise of moisture. The clouds brooding and sullen, dropping rain in the canyons. Not a good thing with harvest.
Still the weeds, the grasses, and all the plants and flowers sing out HOPE! Hope for the coming of Spring. Hope for the new dawn of awaking, after a long rest in winter.
After all Hope never dies out.
From my world to your heart,