Fall whispers, and I listen. While winter is quiet, and summer is serene, fall is just a whisper. I listen to the sound of leaves crunching underfoot, the occasional pitter patter of rain on the wood shingles, and it is all a whisper. A gray-red orange-amber whisper.
We walk daily through the woods, and in and out of the forest, to the wetlands, and across shallow rivers and inlets.
We nap more, I read more. I pick up magazines from last month I never had the time to read, and light a fire. We listen to the geese fly overhead every night just at dusk. We watch the leaves fall in windy tiny tornados. I Chase light, and shadows. Always seeking the golden hour. By far the shortest season, but never unnoticed.