The days are definitely getting shorter, and the yard has changed accordingly. Tired leaves litter the grass. The roses bloom erratically, producing smaller and smaller flowers with less and less scent. Few dragonflies remain, only a handful of Blue Dashers.
Spiderwebs lend the yard an autumn feel, harbingers of Halloween and the brittle months to follow. And there’s a silence, under the muted cricket chorus, that sounds like an echo of winter.
No more robins, no more blue jays, no love-struck doves on the fence. Only an occasional mockingbird, and even they tend to hide from view, flitting through the wax myrtle as if they would rather not be noticed. Or photographed.
So the yard reflects summer’s dwindling hours, despite the lingering heat. And I’m torn between sorrow and anticipation, a permanent state in the last few years. Tomorrow is always exciting, mysterious and unwritten. But today is satisfying, too. As for yesterday? Well, yesterday wasn’t bad at all. In fact, I was kind of sorry to see it go…