As Is The Generation of Leaves. . .

Autumn in New England part II. The oak leaves have turned red, in a second burst of color. In the slough, however, gray becomes the dominant hue. Most of the birds of summer are gone, although I saw a feeding flock of robins in the neighborhood. The pumpkin vase holds what remains from the garden, mostly marigolds, nasturtiums, sedum and a purple flower from the planter which I don’t know. Maybe even a perennial. The toad lily blooms, of course, with a delicate flower for the name. Pine cones lie scattered on the ground. I gather some to use as fire starters.

We begin to think of beef stew and goulash soup. Winter foods. Root vegetables. Acorn squash this week, and broccoli. The kitties are sleek and plump, and bathe themselves assiduously. They enjoy a good fire in the hearth, as cats have always done.

In Festival Madness, I’ve reach page 441 of the manuscript, with the denouement coming down the pike. Finally. The air holds a chill with a foreknowledge of winter. Last night we lit the jack o-lanterns again. Mine wore a black patch over his eye and looked quite fierce, with attitude. S.O.’s seemed friendlier. A man can smile and yet be a villain. Think of that as the election nears.

Grapeshot