Season of mists

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Keats (1795-1821) a couple of lines of poetry that I find myself speaking out loud as I walk in the woods this time of year.  I’m trying to convert myself to loving the autumn.  I used to (past tense) struggle with the evenings drawing in and the increasing dampness and cold.  With our beloved planet in such a fragile state, I feel it’s wise to appreciate each and every season.

As the temperature drops I’m grateful, walking and immersing myself in the seasons feels like a good idea.

Moss and I tend to do a similar walk each day, we often go into the woods, which gives her the opportunity to jink and jive, she’s an athlete, she needs to run.  She also does a bit of litter picking, she manages to find plastic bottles in the woods which nobody else would find.  She loves to hold one in her mouth as she runs about, then, at the end of the walk, I pop them into the recycling.  

We’re a good little team!

This autumn the leaves seem to be turning slowly, with acorns tumbling from the oaks, followed by the burrs of the chestnuts which fur up the paths. 

I notice that Moss hops over the chestnut burrs, they must have prickled her paws in the past, and she’s learned to avoid treading on them. 

I wonder what Moss thinks of the seasons, come to that, I wonder what Moss thinks about.

Image:          We’re a good little team.