As I am slowly coming back to consciousness after my precious afternoon nap the ringing of the phone brings me suddenly to my feet. Wrong number, but I am awake now.

I go to the door, and am seduced outside by the stillness and beauty of the autumn afternoon.

It is quiet, - the faint sound of traffic does not disturb my reverie as I sit on the step in the soft September sunlight and lazily survey the garden.

With pleasure I observe the little birds enjoying afternoon refreshment at the sunflower seed bar stretched along the outside fence. The wings of the honey bees and wasps make gentle whisperings as they whirl around the autumn buds of Mum and Aster.

In the distance I hear the faint conversation of apple pickers. The breeze stirs my hair and the leaves of the hollyhock as it wafts the sound of voices through the trees, but I cannot catch the form of the words.

I gaze across the valley at our original home here, - the farm where we spent our youthful married years, and where our children roamed the hills and creekbeds, the water fall and the small caves that are found along the side of the canyon above the house. I note the rills that mark the Cawston Basin hills, and reminisce about the cloud burst that fifty years ago sifted them down to bedrock so that they shone in the sunlight.

I see the barn, standing out in the clear September air, high on the hill. I think about the nightime hours we spent amongst the quiet warmth of contented sheep, - our attention focused on the ewe(s) who had chosen that particular time to lamb, and the memories are happy.

The sounds of Husband stirring from sleep in the house, anxious to be about his afternoon tasks, give me pause to think of putting on the kettle for tea.

As I leave my stoop I see a large hawk crossing the valley, up, up against the blue, blue sky, into the hills that form the northern slope of the valley. A small quail, perched on a fence post as a look-out for a troop of quail that are skittering across the meadow, sounds the alarm

Off to make tea, and to look for my bell ringing gloves that have hidden themselves away since the last time they were used in May.

The Season changes, and although I woke this morning in a blue Monday Morning funk, my spirit now is soothed and I close my eyes momentarily to give thanks.