On the occasion of the changing of the seasons

The cycle of forever having come full round, summer is at its end and
the time of long shadows is upon us. The neglected calendar hanging
pages behind might say as much but a clear and clean message is all
about to witness if one would but look. Autumn's pallet first dotting
the landscape as though an idle hand might doodle a page now blazes
across the forest and dell bringing hearty earthy color to what remains
of verdant wood and sward. Dawn's hoar will soon crush under boot and
the last of the harvest will fill the jars with winter's repast and
easily too fill spring's young belly.

The woodlife betray the passing of time in the agitated gathering of the
squirrels, the cacophony of waterfowl as they await the hidden signal
that now is the time to take flight. The buzzing air of summer is quiet
as the raucous insects turn under or drop to earth for eternity. But
turn to other senses: you can smell the autumn coming in wetted leaf
fall, in the dampness of the last mow, in the sound of clattering nut
and seed wind-tossed from their pod, the touch of a loved one's face
painted rich amber by long and grand sunsets.

On the passing of summer I'm found one year closer to the last perfect
day, when life leaves me, and me behind loved ones whose memories of me
it is my tomorrow's job to make good and lasting. It is for me to speak
of my experiences and fortunes, my failures and friends, and by the
example of my manner and industry to set my proper place in the time
when I am gone. When I speak of this summer past, what will I say?

By Dennis Peterson (Little Brother)