September 1, 2008


The pigeon is cooing his low, throaty mantra as the sun fades from the day. His hypnotic tones lull the chickens toward sleep and calm my thoughts. The colder breath of autumn nibbles at my bare toes, my earlobes. Summer is releasing. I am ready for the golden-lighted days, crisp nights, flaming sunsets and the harvest that autumn brings. This time of beginning to draw inward; storing the memory of hot sun on skin and cooling waters -- for the times when the sun hides for days and rain washes the landscape.

Soon, I will search the woods for mushrooms. Precious gifts I carry home to my kitchen -- the smell of them almost as sublime as their taste. Their velvet caps and flutes, their feet cradled in earthy humus; I cut carefully, so they may return again. My cat, Thunder, follows me into the forest when I hunt for mushrooms. Like a truffle pig, he has often led me to groupings of mushrooms off my path. Does he know? It has happened too many times for me to question him.

The garden still has more to give ~ grapes, blackberries, tomatoes (with luck), potatoes to be dug, cabbage, leeks and lush herbs begging to be preserved in chutneys, vinegars and by drying. Summer's bounty isn't over yet. But I am ready and open to the quiet season, when my body is nestled in warmth and my mind flies.

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn stand shadowless like silence, listening to silence. Thomas Hood

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Aspenglow / Buttered Lips by Gayle Nabrotzky is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
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