We’re walking in the early Fall woods yesterday morning. The September sun is lower now; the breeze wafting up the ridge from the sea is cooler; the rustling of stiffening canopy leaves is louder. We wade through dappled pools of light, taking very deep breaths of delicious, earthy-smelling air.
We find one of our favorite Cinnamon Ferns. It’s dying. The sun illuminates its seeping soul. We try to imagine the radiance as a friendly goodbye: “Until next year, old man.”
(Brooklin, Maine)