rejectomorph

The transition from warmth to numbing chill has been so abrupt this year that it brings to my mind the image of a Viking horde overrunning a group of suburban ladies enjoying a picnic. It's as though the season had been scripted by Monty Python. A single gray day and a nightlong rain were all that stood between the gentle afternoons of rusty autumn and the onset of winter. Three nights ago, I stood on the porch in shirtsleeves, listening to the chirping of the last cricket as the soft dusk settled over the woodlands. This evening I went out in four layers of clothing and still shivered in the icy silence.

An interesting article about Oregon Truffles in the on-line edition of Audubon Magazine.