The warbling wren -- followed by the wren chittering at its fledging young -- has put away its voice for the year. And quiet -- too quiet -- is the morning. No longer does the gabble and trills of bird song waken at 4:30. Nor does the robin sing and call out to wake the day. Still, the cardinal and the chickadees remember their voices -- as they do all the winter.

So summer wanes. The goldenrod masses its plumes of blossoms, filling old hayfields that have gone to seed. Joe-pye weed's flat amethyst umbrels crowd marshy places. Fireweed has seen nearly all its blossoms turn to fuzzy seeds as the last buds open at the very top of the six-foot-tall stems. Tall stalks bear weighty clusters of small white asters. Queen Anne's lace -- whose earliest blossoms opened ten weeks ago -- still has a few white umbrels among the many curled-in seed heads of past flowers. (There were fields that had so many Queen Anne's lace blossoms that it looked like snow drifting.)

The thick spires of phlox in richest reds, dark crimson, magenta, and deep pink, vibrate in gardens. Summer is a-going out. Loud sing the blue jays above the deep purple and lavender asters.

Our very wet summer has turned into a drier and summery early fall. Each sunshiny day is greeted with a blessing and a hallelujah! even as we wait for green leaves to turn into brilliant (we hope) colors.

Peace to you,
Cherie