Somehow, as we traipsed in the woods, summer turned into fall.  The leaves lost their luster as we turned to look at a flower on the other side of the path.  The fish that we had seen in the river one day had swum back to the lake. I was happy to have my windbreaker.  Far in the distance we spotted a cardinal flower, its red a harbinger of all that nature was poised to deliver.

What was broken in the summer was slowly mending. We worked toward seasonal redemption, with the ungrounded optimism warm weather bestows.  We gardened.  In the evening, we turned on the news, to be humbled by the brown water swirling through Houston’s streets, home’s snugness swept off with Harvey’s debris.

We planned to plant trees, preferably ones that the deer would not eat, the ones that could be happy with our dearth of sun.  There is still time, we imagine.  Autumn is a traditional time to plant trees.

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