At last, it is September. And the world is evening into hot days and cold nights. The sun sinks further south—lingering at the mid-point, like a long kept friend standing at a golden door. Its last rays kiss the tree tops yellow and auburn. It is time to say farewell.
But, first we must gather the last of the harvest. Sweet apple, heavy seed-head, and the glistening prickly pear that stain the sidewalk ruby and purple, are the last course of another exquisite feast. In the canyons, the crevices are soft with the fragrance of decomposing leaves and the fluff of seed and husk. As the afternoon lengthens, the ridge tops glow warm and rose. The birds and the bees and the field mice will pick the earth clean, before they too recede into the falling sun.