I’m not sure if today is perfect because we anticipate what is soon to come, or if today, contained within itself is, well, perfect.
This morning, fall whispered its notice in red leaves that scattered on the ground where we walked; acorns announce it at home as they ricochet from the oak, off aluminum gutters, down to the patio below. The cicadas rev their engines in the heat though the crickets’ mute their beat, as if in subduing themselves they’ll avoid the attention of the frost hovering in the distance. The sun burns but the angle is low—for short hours it warms over the pines, then too early, drops behind. In the garden purple spikes of Liatris age brown; industrious bees have moved on to red Sedum, bobbing at the top of the ledge.
As we get closer to the change of seasons, it is all one can do to perch like a cat in a patch of sun, listening as the breeze inhales in the woods, to draw a breath at the transparent wings of a dragon fly that rests on a jean clad knee, and push back a chair to catch the last of the afternoon sun.