There grows a tree on public property that beholds beautiful plums each year. We know there is a clandestine conspiracy among us plum pickers that beckons each one of us to get to that tree before the other one gets there. Last evening we went out on that annual plum hunt, only to find that the red beauties were gone, the tree bare, and we had lost the once-a-year competition.
The temperature has come down, and there's a nice breeze bringing itself in the house through the screen door. Refreshing. Fallen leaves are scattered on the sidewalk and our front porch. One by one they sail to the ground like little parachutes, each leaf having faithfully completed its job to help beautify our boulevard and give us summer shade. There's a twinge of sadness as I watch the leaves falling, yet there's a balancing twinge of anticipation for the cooler season that will soon be obeying the waving hands of Mother Nature.
Hummingbirds can't walk.