First days of fall...

If I had to choose, I'd say that fall is my favorite season. The gentle blending of hot,bright summer to cooler, copper days. I love to hear the Canada geese call as they pause on the pond during their venture south. I love evenings that call for an extra blanket, the dryer air, the colors that fall in New England blaze. 

I begin to decorate, to bring some of those colors closer. 

The little window box on the Silky coop had depressing, spent flowers drooping in it. So I gave it a freshen up.  Clack cat supervised my work.

Inside I am happy for the first fire in the wood stove, but am reminded that the bright work on it needs polishing, and a can of stove black is also added to the list I am making for my next visit to the hardware store. An armful of stolen hydrangea blossoms are tucked into a freshly polished copper bowl that was once my mothers. I polish the copper candlesticks, too, and some other small bits. Light summer crystal is packed onto the pantry shelves, now I want to see the glow of shiny metal.

The windows have been cleaned, because the days are already noticeably shorter, and we want to let in every ray of light of possible during the long, darker, months ahead. The lace curtains have all been washed, too, and hang, fresh, rid of spider webs and fly specs.

My summer cooking tends to be unimaginative meat on the grill and a vegetable on the side. But with the first hint of chill air I feed my bread starter and bake up a batch. I yearn for stews and soups and heartier fare, and regain an interest in preparing more complex meals. The bowl of apples on the counter is destined for a pie or cobbler, I can hardly wait to smell cinnamon and sugar baking around them.

The flower beds are almost spent. We've had a few light frosts, and they have done some damage. Part of me wants to just pull everything up now so the livestock can enjoy eating them, but the stronger part wants to hang on to every last brilliant blossom. As much as I enjoy autumn, I know that long barren months are ahead.

We've had many a monarch butterfly here these last few weeks. This late straggler was rescued from the hen yard where I found him drying his wings. I put him out of harms way and watched until he took first flight.

His brain is far smaller than mine, yet he has the sense to head to warmer climates. I'll hunker down, the basement stacked full of dry wood, and ready for fall to blend into winter.