The yard is getting colder and colder, though it’s not cold enough, yet, to use the word winter. In fact, it’s a stretch to use the word cold.
Maybe brisk is a better word. Except, nothing feels brisk. Instead everything feels sleepy and slow. Spider webs ripple in smoke-tinged drafts, and wasps pause for photographs as if posing.
Grubs curl sluggishly when disturbed, and I have to go slow with the mower because fall’s chill has dulled the toads’ reflexes.
Jumping spiders retreat higher and higher into trees, searching for safe crevices in which to spin their thick winter nests.
It happens like this every year, and every year I succumb to a listless bout of melancholy.
Which reminds me of a poem by Kay Middleton…