The seasons are changing. A few weeks ago I biked along the river path to school in the sunrise. The trees were freckled with gold that caught the pinks, reds, and oranges of the sky. Now I bike in the predawn pale glow through yellow robed trees before the sun comes and ignites them.
It brings back memories of harvest on the farm. The smells of damp earth, crisp air, and grain dust.
I am sure it was much more fun as a kid when it was exciting to shell peas and dig potatoes. We could still take off and build forts with the abandoned building supplies hiding under unmowed grass.
Our garden is so small, that harvesting it is not the communal affair I am used to. We don’t all collapse at the supper table covered with dirt and sweat. There is no work of canning, freezing, hauling, or drying. The apples are all sauced.
There is nothing left to bring in but kale, but it still has associations of excitement and working together.