This time of year is fascinating to me. It's not summer anymore. It's not yet fall. It's something in between. There is an almost unperceivable shift in the undercurrent. When I run by the lake, the pine needles blanketing the banks smell differently. The late evening breezes are a tiny bit cooler. The evening lightening bugs are dimming. The doves have stopped cooing.
I'm just itching to crawl into the attic and drag out boxes of fall decorations. But it's too soon, and as I found myself reaching for the latch in the hall ceiling last night I slapped my own hand. It's too soon for tables with pumpkins and apple pie candles, and yet, it's almost here.
Our garden seems to be making one last courageous stand, bombarding us with an onslaught of Poblano peppers and German Stripe tomatoes. The plants know summer is winding down. They see a change in the light. They hear the sound of rustling leaves. They're getting ready for fall, making the best of this in between time. And if I stand still enough, quiet enough, I can feel it too.