I’m sitting on my writing porch in the cool of the morning. My little dog is on my lap, but today he needs a blanket and so do I. It’s in the 50s. I slow my breath so that it comes deep and unhurried. Soaking up the low humidity and temperature. There are also quite a few birds singing their joy at this touch of autumn. All of us, creatures from this region, understand this will not last. That is what makes it so enjoyable in the moment. Fall is whispering.

The young sourwoods are crimson ombré. They line the banks of the roadway socializing with the still green grasses of summer. This between-season party is their once a year opportunity to mingle. The lacy heads of the golden rod are full. They sprinkle the landscape with gold. Swaying in the fields like a chorus singing, together, but separate. One voice that says fall is right around the corner. The dogwoods are blushing and the mountains are first-kiss pink, as if this crisp temperature makes them all shy.

In the sea of green off of my back porch, I can see a few…maybe 5 or 6…red leaves. Still, the promise of cooler weather is there right in front of my eyes. The curtain of my tree-house porch will soon provide the stained glass of a chapel. For now, the light is playing. It is autumn light, soft and warm. Golden. Dappled dancing happening in front of my eyes, even across my computer screen. There are a few acorns falling. Not being divebombed yet, but these few add a bit of percussion to the insects trilling. Everyone is making music together this morning. A Sunday morning song.

There is peace here. It is calm. I feel hope. The world is turning. The seasons are right on time. Never early, never late. He’s got the whole world, in his hands.