Why is it that the beginning and ending of each day hold such a mystical fascination for us?
Is it the tidy binding up of the hours---or perhaps a 'throw-back' to the not so distant times when the work of a day must be accomplished between 'sun-up and sun-down?'
Whatever it is, I so often wish I had a camera with higher definition [and the patience and skill to use one!]
a device to record the swiftly changing moments.
G. had whooshed in bearing a plate of freshly iced cinnamon rolls.
I ate one with iced coffee while G. opened her FaceBook page on my laptop to catch me up on
some family news.
[She was happily eating the Swiss Chard left from our supper as she jabbed at the keyboard.]
[Taken from mid-way on the drive with the camera tilted up. That is the ancient pear tree on the right with its gnarled old branches flung up against the red sky.]
FaceBook and snacks out of the way, we ambled around the flower strips, accompanied by Willis who was [as usual] inspired to thrash madly through clumps of achillia and assault a tree lily.
Bellowing at him seems only to spur him on to repeat the performance.
G. delivered her opinions on the color layout of the flowerstrip:
"Why can't you group all the pink flowers together, then all the yellow ones, etc, etc"
and then announced she must get home to watch an 'all new episode of What Not To Wear.'
The old hay barn hulks against the darkening sky.
To the left the rolls of hay are safe under an immense tarp which I held in place earilier in the day as J. battled the wind to anchor it.
There is always a collection of farm implements to clutter a photo--a worthy old tractor waiting its turn for a rehab, a trailer--whatever is being used at any given time or doesn't fit inside the center aisle of
one of the barns.
A last streak of gold, smokey lavender and mottled fiery pink paints the sky above the woods.
As I walked back to the house firefly lights dotted the grass and the Poor-Will began his nightly serenade from across the creek.