Not much to report on the farm this morning. The fall breeze is wending its way through every leaf and fern frond. Buddy paces the porch in search of the stingiest slice of sunshine. And I’m trying to prep the place for seven months of droplets, drizzle and downpours.
My greenhouse remains woefully optimistic, gloating over the fact that its tenants are protected until the first severe frost. Dahlias respond to cooler nights, blooming like the finale of a fireworks show, one last blast of color and exuberance before the show ends for the season.
Over the last several weeks, a flush of operatic songbirds have coopted my greenhouse as their performance hall. Every day is an ovation when song sparrows provide the curtain call. I thought you might enjoy shutting out some worldly noise, and letting in a simple song of joy.