This has to be one of the most rapid descents into fall in the history of the known universe. I’m not too sure how I feel about that accomplishment.
Every morning, I get up and look out the bedroom windows at larger swaths of yellow and persimmon. Long-time residents say that a wet August diminishes the vibrancy of changing leaves. But either these people drank too much Kool-Aid in the 70s or the bushes and trees didn’t get the memo.
Yesterday I caught the first whiff of woodsmoke. Earlier in the week, fisted whirlwinds of leaves and petals arced across the stones of the front terrace. The meadow is full of late-summer wildflower bouquets. (Or at least that’s my self-absorbed interpretation of the clumps.)
I’m not sure who to blame, but my currants have disappeared and the rose hips are rapidly becoming an endangered species. The fruit is missing from the bottom two feet of each plant, so I’m suspecting one of the rabbits I thought was now extinct thanks to a hungry pair of fox sweeping through most evenings.
When we built several years ago, we installed a xeriscape landscape. Water is precious in the High Country, and we believe that we are called to stewardship of this earth as Christians. (The daisies and wild grasses are waist-high in the back, so I guess our stewardship is working. The sprinkler system has been off since early July.) I think we’re going to have to call in professional help to cut everything down before winter. Bailing wire, anyone?
Our nighttime temperatures have dipped into the thirties a few times, although our afternoons creep into the seventies. The red-tail hawks are riding wind currents that have shifted up the creek at the base of our property. I watch them pirouette most afternoons, and their grace and freedom inspire me to soar!