Rain spills from the sky, sloshing down my windows, washing away last month’s accumulation of dust, and puddling on the abandoned patio table. Trees reflect on the water-slickened deck, while tiny droplets hover on the edge of the eaves, swelling until they suddenly drip into oblivion.
Elsewhere leaves are watered off limbs and into the grass, scattering amber and gold and brown.
This is a time of melding. There is resignation contained in the day, regret for summer’s end. But there is rejuvenation, too. A new season begins… the one promised three weeks ago when we began returning to fall routines. I like a lot of fall’s promises: the visual echo of colours edged with crispness, the silence of sung-out robins replaced with honking geese, the coziness of feathery duvets shaken from closets.
There is a spillover into my writing – a fresh energy to accompany new words. Do you feel it, too?