Late August Morning

The mornings start green-golden, as we walk Faerygirl down the driveway to meet the bus. Heavy in the lazy fog drifts the scent of crushed walnuts. Sometimes, there is a hint of our musky skunk neighbor. Every day, there is more yellow at the edges of the forest, a few more leaves on the ground. The song is different, too, no longer the wild birdsong of spring. This music consists of soft cricket chirping, the gurgling cackle of a disturbed screech owl, the sharp keen of hunting hawks, and occasional cawing from angry crows. As the golden sunrise mist dissipates, a September-blue sky reveals itself and the cicadas begin their buzzing. Squirrelboy expresses disgruntlement with the burrs that stick everywhere - clothes, cats, blankets, soft toys: anything that comes in contact with the burrs that come in with us or the cats. Berries begin ripening; I see the deep blue-purple of Solomon's seal and the red of false Solomon's-seal. I anticipate a pawpaw harvest in the next week or so.