I just peeped outside the front door, through the leaded glass panes, and saw a thin bank of mist out there.
Reminds me of the mist on the farm where I grew up, hanging low in the valley around the house and barn early in the morning.
Mist makes the world mysterious, briefly transforming it into something special — and then it’s gone again, a small gift only for early risers.
Through the back door I see a female cardinal at a feeder that’s been empty all summer. The season is changing, and plants and animals are in a different relationship with each other. Perhaps the birds are starting to stock up again on my bird seed, prepping for winter.
Fall mornings these days include me urging Matthew out the door on time for school — which didn’t work out today. It also includes walking the dog, perhaps with a slight coolness in the air, looking about us as we go, searching for signs of the turning season.
Or is it me that’s turning, entering the fall season of MY life?
The thought lingers, like a thin mist, lying low in my garden.
Or maybe not quite yet.
In the garden.