September has heralded in the most perfect autumn days. Suddenly there’s mist in the morning, defusing the light and giving the bark on the pine trees a pink glow. It’s chilly enough to warrant some knitting, or at least to go home and browse patterns.
We hold the sun’s warmth on still afternoons with barely a breeze, dozing under old oak trees. The twigs feel snappier under foot, everything a little dried out, having spent its summer sap.
Before too long, I’ll be lighting the first fire and choosing some fat historical novel to read. Any suggestions?