I was up at first light to scour the sky. Yesterday’s promise of blue had faded into thick cloud cover overnight.
In utter disbelief I studied the blanket of impenetrable grey; it was a bit disorienting, to say the least.
Now I sit with my cup of morning coffee, staring out the back window into our yard. There is a stillness in the air. I strain to listen for some still small voice, but only silence echoes in my ear.
Yesterday I raked the lawn and the beds and bagged the golden leaves. The results of my day of labor — seven stout brown bags, filled to the brim — stand quietly along the red-stone retaining wall that I built with my bare hands three decades ago.
Once again the yard is covered with yellow leaves, fallen overnight. One of the maples still retains several clusters: hangers-on that have yet to give up the ghost.
Today I shall resolve to put myself to raking once again. There are more bags to fill; there is a remnant that needs cleaning.