Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness

The sun is slanting low but bright these days, unmistakable Autumn in the atmosphere even though only a few maples yet have leaves ever so slightly edged with color.

Today is perfect. The sky is reflecting the morning glories, well named "Heavenly Blue." The Goldenrod is coming into bloom, the Queen Ann's Lace still festoons the roadsides. It's 70 degrees and dry, cool enough for a turtleneck in the shade (though after 1/2 hour of pulling weeds in the sun it's warm enough).

I would be content with heaven if it were nothing more than a perfect day just before the world tilts into winter.

And once again, as every year, I think of John Keats, too soon dead, may he live forever.

627. To Autumn. John Keats. The Oxford Book of English Verse