Morning dew shimmers on the blanket of leaves nestling our little forest floor. Layered reds and browns rustle in the faintest breeze.
Folding flannel cuffs up my young boy’s arms; checkered hues accent his blushed cheeks. We search for a pair of socks in the larder.
Sliding on boots and stomping down stairs; outside we catch our breath- our first crisp morning is pulled into our lungs.
Carving spears out of hickory and birch; we play warrior braves on the front porch stage. Laughter echoes off the pond as the day slowly grows on.
We gather the shavings in our hands and pile them in the fire pit for tonight. It is the pungent dirt and the death of leaves that stirs us in this season.
We don’t try and hold our summer hostage. We lay in hammocks waiting for sister winter and are caught in the movement of expectancy.
“The chiggers are finally dead”- we scream parading up to the top of our knoll. Let’s lay down our fears and kick up the dust of hidden treasures buried beneath gold leaves.