Dappled sunlight dances slight across the bulbous squash squished gently into their collective crates as they await their fortune, fated for the soups and stomachs of those rosey-cheeked hungry who are fresh from latching out the wind and the rain behind the heavy door of evening. Numb fingers fumble for warmth in the dying light as they weigh the welcome heft of orange and golden gourds the color of fire, ripened in the sweet soil of long summer days that have now given way to the autuminal nip. What future do these falling leaves hold for fields once burgeoning, now bereft of all but a lone crow’s caw, the harbinger – calling into the cold for the return of the sun and the blossoming buds of spring. All in due time, cold crow, the sun will return, and the buds will blossom, but for now, the soup is ready, and the gordian fire requires another log.

~Jon