The garden issues a false sense of warmth: the ferocity of some of the icy mornings in the past week skew my perceptions as I stand here, but this damp November morning is cool indeed.
A solitary honey bee drifts purposefully into view, and inspects the pastel mauve of the vinca flower next to me. A fleeting second is all it needs to determine that there’s nothing of interest here, and it flies off.
The garden somehow feels flatter this week. The various organic detritus feels as if it has moved through autumn’s scattered phase, and is starting to decompose; the soil seems to have awoken, and is starting to claim what is rightfully hers to take.
The various hydrangea plants have taken on a new appearance: leaves are shedding, leaving only plumes of dainty flowers at the end of their stalks. The effect is aesthetically pleasing, whilst simultaneously highlighting the increasing fragility of plant life in the garden.
The stream flows with a steady brown hue today, carrying with it particles from miles away, atop the moors, where peat and fog champion these short days and long nights.
As I turn to head back indoors, the corvid caw of a solitary flow carves a path through the white sky above me, and we move in opposite directions, both off to continue respective days with a sense of industry.
A Seasoned Soul. 