augustĀ 

The garden is thriving while much of the other life around here is falling to winter’s grip. Smoke from the fires across the northwest fills our little valley, so much so that most days I cannot see the mountains across the lake. The cycle of fire & drought, of growth & death, of dark & light is natural, but nonetheless stirring, in this place. I’m thankful for the hope of each day’s sun, the bravery of those fighting these fires & the dependable way the seasons shift. 

   
   
the summer air is now laced with autumn breezes. time is passing.