Summer can be like the guest at your party who was welcome when he arrived but does not take your hint about when to leave. Even as the days grow shorter and my shadow falls longer on the garden path, the heat of August lingers well beyond its welcome.
Until one recent morning when for the first time I noticed a diaphanous mist hanging over the grass. It was a gauzy curtain that turned my favorite trees into insubstantial shadows. The gate to the garden seemed to float mysteriously in the air. When the fog cleared later that morning, I saw what I had not noticed until now. The leaves were proudly glowing with autumn colors. Deep red, ocher yellow, burnt purple. A loamy aroma rose from the earth. Some trees were already bare ruined choirs, their branches grasping the sky.