It has begun.

The quiet, cool blaze is burning its way through here. The tall trees, lusciously green just a few weeks ago, are falling prey to this silent inferno. The red and the yellow and orange flames lick the bodies of these giants. Gently undressing them, letting their cloaks slide to the ground. Leaving them bare. Somber. Ready for their winter coat.

As I was climbing the hills yesterday, the bike moving slowly enough for me to actually notice what was happening around me, it suddenly felt like this woodland was letting out its last sigh of summer. The sizzle is gone from the sunny beams, and the fire in the leaves foretell the inevitable arrival of winter.

It is becoming quiet. Again. A moment's pause, while Nature prepares to change the setting. She carefully rolls up the green carpets of the meadows. Bottles the red from the roses. Puts the singing of the birds, and the chirping of the crickets, in a cardboard box. And while she busies herself with those autumn chores, everything else sits patiently by.

Watching the seasons turn.