Autumn glories

Except for the sounds made by the Black-capped chickadees and sparrows foraging for food among the fallen leaves, no other sound stirs the garden these days; only the peace of small wonders and the muffled hum of Autumn softly falling upon the earth, and my soul has adopted the mellowness and language of the season.  

One day, I went to the garden, and found my little world covered in a cobbler crust of brown sugar and cinnamon, as Autumn's fire burned slowly along garden paths and day by day leaves changed, and fell, and melted.  

The front of the house was a riot of pumpkin-yellow leaves a week ago, and trees everywhere had painted the world in brunt aquarelles and were every day dropping off their jewels, covering lawns and gardens and roofs in silky sheets of crimson and cerise.

In the magical light of dusk, diminutive organisms like beams of light, tent to appear out of nowhere, you can see them everywhere gently floating in the atmosphere; gleaming and twinkling—will-o'-the-wisp, some call them. It’s been said, that these atmospheric ghost lights are only seen by travelers at night, especially over bogs, swamps or marshes.  But of course, here in my magical garden, they can be seen too.  I can't tell what they really are, but I can certainly see them, and they resemble flickering lamps.

It must be the October magic that still lingers… the same magic that makes us tiptoe outside in a hurry in the middle of the day to just sit quietly; daydream, and watch the last oozing hours of the day go by under magical, shadowy veils of mist.