The rain stops, takes away heat and leaves autumn in it's wake. We lose 20 degrees by the thermometer. Giant puffballs squat like fat toads on lawn and pasture. The grass greens from the rain, but the trees begin to choose their wardrobe from a different palette--yellow, red, orange. I move my lounge chair from the back to the front porch vowing to find time during the next few weeks to sit and view the spectacle. I hear crickets chirp in the daytime, and that is always the moment I know autumn has arrived on our farm. They are to fall what katydids are to high summer.
The summer squash and the tomatoes slowly give out, but the brussel sprouts and romaine shoot up in the cooler nights, and I finally succeed in getting cabbage and broccoli to sprout. It's time to plant garlic. And meanwhile we continue to harvest and put up for winter all the goodness we have been blessed with this summer.
A stray shows up in our yard, but not the usual kind.
Eggs slow down a bit as days grow shorter and the barnyard is a flurry of feathers as my hens enter moult. I have always found it strange that they moult right when the weather turns cool. Wouldn't they want to keep their feathers then? But they'll have a new down coat by winter I suppose. We've lost one of the barred rock hens to a hawk or an owl. Why do they always choose the most valuable poultry to snack on?
The goats are getting out of their pen...again. I am remembering why we have gotten rid of so many goats in the past.
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