The sun now appears slowly between the shoulders of the Sleeping Ute and Goodman point. Not the fierce, blistering light that heralded every summer morning. Paler now, gentler, almost diffident, shy perhaps that winder is coming
A deep carpet of once brilliant leaves has found a resting place, surrendering their color, huddled against the wind at every gully or vine row. One Cottonwood has turned late, stubborn against change, still brilliant yellow, defiant, so easy to revere.
A colder wind moans through the bare limbs of the towering trees. Gone are summer’s petulant gusts snatching at the shimmering leaves and limbs laden with plump pears. The birds now glide before the wind, no longer coiling and darting in the scorching air