Indian summer. St. Martin’s Summer.
This morning I rose to a glorious, crystalline day, bright and gleaming and warm as a day in May. A bit later than we expect an Indian summer around here—the leaves deserted the trees weeks ago.
I woke, as usual, feeling as though I’d been hit by a truck. Not bad considering the work I’d put in on Thanksgiving day and the reality that “feeling my best” means feeling roughly the way you do when you’ve got a slight case of the flu.
Nonetheless I pitched in and helped my wife do the final clean-up before winter, raking the leaves out of the beds, bagging them up. This afternoon we’ll start putting up the few outdoor Christmas lights we indulge in.
All in all a wonderful beautiful day, rendered all the more precious by the realization that the cold of winter is not far off.
