Harvest has arrived and the tomatoes are red, juicy, and off the vine fresh.

The blackberries vines climb all over the trellis bursting with succulent berries.

I pick three or four sun-ripened berries and pop them in my mouth.

The sycamore tree bark is showing it’s mottled and artistic paper-like bark.

But it’s early yet.

It’s late August.

There is time to listen to the cicadas.

There is time to breathe in the fresh air,

And sit under the backyard trees.

There is time to view the goldfinches feeding.

Young mister cardinal is molting.

He looks like someone has ruffled his feathers.

Or he seems as if he’s an old bird with molting issues.

He sits on the back of the rocking chair and stairs at me through the kitchen window.

He is still, calm, and a bit worse for the wear.

The wisdom of the garden is in the nature that breathes, flies, bursts forth,

And later dies in anticipation of winter.

But does it really die or just go dormant?

So there is still time.

Fall is just upon us.

Fall is just upon us.

There is still time.


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