Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimmed their clammy cell.
John Keats – Ode to Autumn
Overflow parking lot.
There is a chill in the air when I arise in this season of mists. Sun is out and the ripples on the surface of the lagoon sparkle as I approach. Refreshing to not be surrounded by houses and office buildings. Nature still has a toe hold in this place.
