The trees outside my windows are nearly bare, the leaves that clothed them carelessly strewn about the gardens and banked up against the side of the barn like piles of unwashed laundry.
Autumn means we're nearing the end of the the story for this year, closing the book, if you will. Winter will be little more than a smear of ink on blank pages...
It's a lovely time though, and has me reminiscing about the year and you, and all the trust you place in me.
Give a listen: