By the aging stately oaks, with their crowns of hirsute branches, we stand. We stand beside these towering canopies, raking and burning the dry leaves which have fallen to the ground, covering the landscape like a bister afghan. The charred debris being borne away into the smoky air, aloof until the sprightly embers pursue. Searing **** swirling round and round before cooling rapidly, then dying without a sound.

In the distance, I see the local church bells swinging from their axles -the clappers striking the sound rims-then tolling in full tones for the listeners within a one-mile range. The ripe fruits in our garden tree weigh down the boughs like diadems, and  within inches of our outstretched arms, they hang.

And the children play tag, romping in the yard yelling, "You're it!" and, "Not it!", all thru the evening hours. A smile across your lovely face lets me know you are enjoying the remaining day, and I take more pleasure in that than I can aptly say. Then we take a break from our toil and sit in the hale shade of the gallant trees, you drinking sweet tea with me, as we agree, we should avail days to these rare autumn liberties.