Home safely after an extensive time vacationing about. The times were exciting, stimulating and definitely rewarding. Still, there is no feeling to rival (at least for me) that of returning home at last. I unpack and check those things which need to be checked, have a sip, eat a bite and, acknowledging the fatigue fought all day, head for bed. The retriever is already fast asleep.
An unknown vision greets my waking: the fog rises high off the water in narrow, twisting wisps of dancing ghosts. How lovely! I regret not arriving before their ball was almost over.
Taking advantage of rains which fell while I was gone, the morning glories are an excited mass of green fingers with brilliant magenta flowers. The deck chair definitely needs rescue but, strangely, the larch seems to have developed powers of its own to repel the grasping strands for they all rise, threaten, but then curl up brown.
Unfed these past days, the geese honk a greeting even before I register the now-strange familiar call. Soon corn is out and, once fed, they are gleefully splashing through the water, turning somersaults and letting all know of their enjoyment of this perfect summer's day.
Piled up high, including advertisements long out-dated, the papers want my attention. I pour a glass of lemonade - it's already too hot for additional coffee - and attack the stack. Certainly there are articles worthy of my time and attention. I'll look.
I'm grateful the mail can't be picked up until tomorrow. I have enough to demand my attention just now.
The gray clouds scurry in to presage yet another change of mood. Before I know it, I must hurry out to rescue the nearly dry laundry. Too late. Having tolerated so much lately, the retriever balks at the falling wet: thanks, anyway; I'll sit this one out. He watches from the doorway. The dry doorway.
A late evening respite before the final rays of sun herald the closing of the day. The hummingbirds feeding greedily at the hollyhocks show no color preference. Perhaps they have not read the books.
The fruit on the wild cherries has noticeably reddened in my absence, a perfect forerunner of the seasonal colors just three or four months hence.
I'm happy to be home.
The goldfinches brighten the brightest, the chickadees yoo-hoo unmistakably, the crows caw raucously and the nuthatch returns once the feeders have been refilled.
The fallen phlox and hollyhocks tell of the heaviness of the storm just missed but all else seems in good order.
I gather a bouquet of roses.
It feels good to be home.
Susan Crossett is a Cassadaga resident. Send comments to firstname.lastname@example.org