Autumn has certainly fallen.

      The yard of The Little House has only one tree, a large spruce. Yet this yard has more leaves than any of the neighbors, who have the trees, thanks to persistent winds. Nature put the leaves here nature can take them away. Perhaps it's time for a Mary Oliver poem.

      Mary Oliver (b. 1935)

Fall Song

Another year gone, leaving everywhere
its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,

the uneaten fruits crumbling damply
in the shadows, unmattering back

from the particular island
of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere

except underfoot, moldering
in that black subterranean castle

of unobservable mysteries — roots and sealed seeds
and the wanderings of water. This

I try to remember when time's measure
painfully chafes, for instance when autumn

flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing
to stay — how everything lives, shifting

from one bright vision to another, forever
in these momentary pastures.

       The day offer me another opportunity to walk in the field. Life is good!

Takk for alt,

Al