As I walk the dog twice daily and as we drive to church twice weekly, I realize the season is beginning to change.
In the early mornings, the mist wraps itself like a scarf among the mountains. In the evenings, a crispness is in the air.
There is the bright purple of the Iron Weed, the yellow of the Goldenrod, and the majesty of the towering Queen of the Meadow.
The trees are loaded with apples and pears, and the black walnuts are beginning to drop.
The chirp of the Cicada is heard more than the songs of the birds.
Vegetable gardens are fading. The potatoes are ready to be dug.
The sweet scent of mowed long grass reminds me of drying hay from the farm on which I grew up.
The sunlight angles from a different spot. Darkness comes sooner.
The calendar reads “August”; but nature says, “Autumn is coming!”
*I must give credit to one of my children who one day on a walk said, “Look at the fog on the mountain. It looks like a scarf!”