On the occasion of the changing of the seasons

The cycle of forever having come full round, summer is at its end and the time of long shadows is upon us. The neglected calendar hanging pages behind might say as much but a clear and clean message is all about to witness if one would but look. Autumn's pallet having first dotted the landscape as though an idle hand might doodle a page now paints blazes across the forest and dell bringing hearty earthy color to what remains of verdant wood and sward. Dawn's hoar will soon crush under boot and the last of the harvest will fill the jars with winter's repast and easily too fill spring's young belly.

The woodlife betray the passing of summer in the agitated gathering of the squirrels, the cacophony of waterfowl as they await the hidden signal that now is the time to take to wing. The buzzing air of summer is quiet as the raucous insects turn under or drop to earth for eternity. But draw now from other senses: you can smell the autumn coming in wetted leaf fall, in the damp of the last mow, in the sound of clattering nut and seed wind-tossed from their pod, the touch of a loved one's face painted rich amber by long and grand sunsets.

On the passing of summer I'm found one year closer to the last perfect day, when life leaves me, and me behind loved ones whose memories of me it is my tomorrow's job to make good and lasting. It is for me to speak of my experiences and fortunes, my failures and friends, and by the example of my manner and industry to set my proper place in the time when I am gone. When I speak of this summer past, what will I say?