Fall. Our mornings shed fresh light on the beauty found in dying away. Frost creeps across crisping leaves and crunchy morning grass. A 180 degree turn from sunset to sunrise reveals a palette of russet orange and purple mountain’s majesty. We hang onto our sandals hoping for a last footfall of deceptive warmth. Indian summer. My shredded lawn chair knows the Tuesday garbage pick is calling, but continues to deny its decay. Our freshly tuck-pointed fireplaces await. A retreating inside for coffee coziness, quiet books and transcribed thoughts is just around the corner.