Shopping was brief today, but I'm still exhausted. The clouds have all withdrawn to the upper reaches of the mountains, and here the bright sun lets the oaks, still mostly green, dapple one another's leaves with late afternoon shadows. Sunday is quiet, compared to other days, though not as quiet as it used to be. My thoughts are not as quiet as they used to be, either. They intrude on the placid hours when I could be listening to the woodpeckers and the slight rustling of the leaves the late breeze brings. I watch the heaped clouds drift along the ridges, and regret that they will soon go away. I miss the sound of rain drowning out the world.
Sunday Verse Rerun
Fall Leaves Fall
by Emily Brontë
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me Fluttering from the autumn tree. I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow; I shall sing when night's decay Ushers in a drearier day.