I Should Have Called This Journal "Local Weather Report."

[rejectomorph]

Today truly feels like fall: crisp air and toasty sun. It is a perfect day to sit and watch the crows swoop and glide and gather in the tops of the pine trees, calling to one another in their harsh but oddly comic crow language. The apples have been harvested from the orchard, and the thinning foliage of the oaks reveals new and more intricate patterns of sky. The leaves of the dogwoods continue to darken to deeper shades of red, in pleasing contrast to the brightness of the clusters of berries which now adorn them. The chamade of acorns continues to summon the squirrels, and the rain, for the moment, remains only a promise for the days yet to come. Now, I will go and watch the last yellow rays of sun touch the crow-filled tops of the trees.