(C) R.L.K.
Keeping in time, there’s a song we might sing, ‘Tis Autumn, season of change, of loss and of gain, a mosaic of summer and winter and spring; blue haze in the air, rustling red yellow gold leaves relinquished, afloat, afloat, falling, falling then returning to the circling winds. Now come the mists in the morning, the quiet afternoons when the brook drowses in its stony bed, the caws of crows in the dusk, the harvest moonlight and the stars’ frosty twinkle. And again, the last creakings of the swings, the thin old brooms sweeping the porches, the roadside grasses ripening with seeds, the sunlight streaming down on the asters, the orange gleam of the sugar maples, the far hilltops shimmering; rare days, days of coolness and calm.
