Sunday’s post is late. It’s not that the dog ate it— What do clever kids say these days when a paper is late? The cat walked over the keyboard and stepped on “Delete”?
Shall I write about the trees? They are still holding on to most of their leaves, though the garden is already littered with the beginnings of their annual undressing. The euonymus in its blazing scarlet glory? The figs wrapped in their burlap winter blankets, looking like mummies, non-living reminders marking the place where they once were? The apples? Most of their fruit is gone. What’s left are a few sorry snacks for the birds and the bugs. The majestic zelkova? Its smaller branches are whipping in the wind while the great tree sways and grips the ground with its thick, tenacious roots.
There is still a hardy rose here and there, some zinnias, a tomato or two. The hydrangeas most blessed by the sun are purple, pink and lime green, though even they are slowly browning. Now the grasses are holding sway. They undulate in the wind, gracefully bending to its will.
The country may be languishing, but the city has asserted itself, bustling with movement and purpose. The new season brings new ideas, new fashion, new theater and the best movies of the year. New York is at its best in the fall through the holidays with its colors and lights.
Or shall I mention the light? Better said, the lack of it. Summer’s bold, life-giving rays have migrated to another part of the planet, leaving in their stead the weak and wan rays that sleep in long past the time they should wake us up and are completely tuckered out by three in the afternoon. Another two months to go before the solstice begins to revitalize the days and restrain the night.
Speaking of which, the bed is beckoning and I am ready to comply.