Dewy Turnings

You awaken one morning and look out into the garden, realizing that your floral and buggy garden wanderings are over for the year. The last rosebuds have succumbed to frost, and not a dragonfly, a bee or a spider adorns the foliage or offers up its small and shining life to your eyes and your camera.

Frost rimes the pools and puddles in the park when you set out with Spencer for an early walk, and the icy waters hold out a mirror to the clear October sky. The trees overhead sway in their own seasonal turnings, and grasses on the village common crunch pleasingly underfoot. Every drop of dew suspended in the hedgerow is a tiny perfect world, an atomy full of wonder.

It is good to be back, and thank you so much for your kind words. I will get through all this computer and health stuff, and I shall be (hopefully) stronger and a tad wiser for the experience - if anything, a little fiercer and even more passionate about this beautiful wild world we call home.