The creek is low. Just small pools in the deepest places that slowly fill, slowly swell until the quivering mirrors spill, silently, down into the next deepest place.
Confetti is flung from the trees in celebration of these shorter days and longer nights.
The pasture is flaxen grass and seed pods, stitched by fence line to the green of the lawn. Flocks of wild turkeys do their twice-daily ground-pecking pass-through. The old binoculars sit ready on the window sill so we can see them closer still. Wild cottontails, who have found the last of the garden, seem quite pleased with themselves as they adjust their waistbands accordingly.
Autumn. This season I love.