Our family went on a hike among golden maples.

Leaves crunched underfoot.

                  Windblown oaks lined the path where it neared the St. Croix River,                                        
along with peeling cedars that had a Halloween-worthy tangle of dead limbs.

While in the open meadows, backlit tongues of sumac fire dripped toward the ground.

During our walk along the river I somehow ceased my “rage against the dying of the light,” to paraphrase Dylan Thomas, and accepted that the gardening season is over for 2013.  Kaput. Finished. No more. Over the last two weeks I’ve planted 600 spring bulbs, spread mulch over newly planted beds and all that is left is to clean and oil the gardening tools and put them away in the shed.  My husband shut down our sprinkler system, so there is now no water but what nature provides. Pumpkin patches and styrofoam graveyards are springing up on our street and as I gaze out the window this morning a few flakes of snow are slanting down like nails into a coffin . . . . Good-by summer,  I’ll see you next year.