It's raining here in this small corner of the world. It does finally seem October-like. There is an expectant hush on the field, and one lone cricket sings, in a drowsy sort of way. There are many unicorns about in the silver air, but the cats are slow to go out in the mornings now. They huddle on perches, looking out before they plunge into the darker dawn...
The grass is always wet when we wake, and it makes the Spaz dog hesitate to go out. So he curls up in the den of the bedroom until a lemon color strikes the maple tree. The zinnia got so tall that they fell, and now rise up again from the ground, proof that there once was a summer, brave proof for the seasons in their neon glory. We have moved from green and blue and yellow and pink to red and purple and lemon and brown. The very dirt smells more provocative now. And I search fruitlessly for a color-name to describe the scent of a leaf changing color. If anything deserves it, the maple tree does.
I spent a lazy morning yesterday with the Saucy Brit in her shop, talking and running my hands through soft pink and silver gray and mossy green materials. Her shop is filled with the scent of candles, as her mind is full of vision and true wisdom and that earthy sense that make me want to spend all day with her. Pearls gleam softly from the wooden shelves, and velvet pumpkins in rust and gold and brown make me want to lay my head on the lavender pillows covered with velvet and mirrors, pearls and braid.
The days now move like molasses.