The early September fog clings to the Connecticut River, hesitant to allow the bright blue sky and golden sun to usurp its place in the kingdom. Tinges of yellow and orange form on the treetops, eager to expand downwards. Summer clings to its hold on the earth, seemingly knowing its certain demise is too soon coming, just as a rock climber knows when a handhold will not persist. A line from one of my many favorite Kristofferson songs repeats in my mind:
"I have seen the morning burning golden on the mountain in the skies..."
Enjoy the end of summer, my New England, Michigan and other friends from northern vicinities. We know what awaits us.