There is something magical about a walk on an Indian Summer day, when sunshine warms the soul, but Fall lurks in the shadows. The prairie has passed its crimson and gold peak, and now the trees begin to take over the palette. The remainders of flowers past their prime, aged and brown, adorn the landscape with the beauty of having lived fully and given all.
The spent Queen Anne’s Lace along the roadside is storied like the curled and yellowed lace of abandoned fancy work lying in an attic trunk.
The asters give the last of the the summer drama to the landscape with their pinks and purples, providing the final meals for the wooly bear caterpillars and other insects before winter’s frost.
Bees are busy among the Golden Rod and few remaining flowers, gathering up the last of the nectar, aggressive in their hunt for sustenance.
Here or there a brave Lazy Susan makes a brave show, defiant at summer’s end.
But even the compass plant knows what direction it should take at summer’s end.
The day is magnificent as the sunlight plays over the prairie. All is calm and as I wander, I wonder. I think about life, its past. Its present and what the future holds. And I know, with certainty, that no matter what the future holds, everything will be okay.