Mid-November and there's still a pansy in the garden, blooming like it's spring. But, snow's coming Thursday, they say. Don the work gloves, grab the rake, and, in the remaining hours of slanted afternoon sun, draw the leaves into long, snaking windrows across the lawn. Fallen pages of summer, now swishing, shattering autumn.
The creek, mirror of the sky, has slowed, it's color gone deep and inky. Hunks of charred wood lie in the fire pit, remnants of a recent night when teenagers, hot dogs, and marshmallows huddled over the flame. The hammock is empty; the clothesline is bare. Meandering flocks of wild turkeys peck their way by. Nellie yawns and lets them pass.
Friends purveying pumpkins ask how many I want. I'm tempted with a good heap of the sugar kind. Fill a corner of the larder, then roast them in nooks & crannies of the day. Potatoes. Potatoes, too, to pick up from the farmer who grew them down the road. Carrots and beets I'll dig myself, the last remaining harvest from the last beds in the garden.
And in the midst of the gathering in and putting by, maybe a little planting. Maybe, just maybe, a few spring bulbs will drop to the ground.
Wishing you a lovely week's beginning, friends.