I am probably the only one out there that does not like turning the clocks back an hour in the fall.
Everyone else relishes the extra hour of sleep.
But I mourn the loss of an hour of light at the end of the day.
My hours, though, are different now. I get up early and go to bed early. And when I drove to the grocery store this morning in the dark, I found myself, for the first time, wishing for that extra hour of light in the morning.
As I took my walk at Hope this morning, I noticed, once again, that as the days grow shorter, the birds and the squirrels and other wildlife go about their business, but the plants and the flowers are beginning to close up shop.
There are fewer blooms. I look at a patch of land that was filled with color two months ago and now it looks like the city pool after Labor Day up north, gray and vacant, gates locks, doors shut. Only a few stragglers remain.
These were the same flowers I ignored before because their cousins were far more beautiful. But now they are the only ones left.
Petals of red and yellow like rays of light bursting from the sun. They thrive still, for a little while, a reminder of the light that will not touch the very top of the sky again until summer.
Everyone else relishes the extra hour of sleep.
But I mourn the loss of an hour of light at the end of the day.
My hours, though, are different now. I get up early and go to bed early. And when I drove to the grocery store this morning in the dark, I found myself, for the first time, wishing for that extra hour of light in the morning.
As I took my walk at Hope this morning, I noticed, once again, that as the days grow shorter, the birds and the squirrels and other wildlife go about their business, but the plants and the flowers are beginning to close up shop.
There are fewer blooms. I look at a patch of land that was filled with color two months ago and now it looks like the city pool after Labor Day up north, gray and vacant, gates locks, doors shut. Only a few stragglers remain.
These were the same flowers I ignored before because their cousins were far more beautiful. But now they are the only ones left.
Petals of red and yellow like rays of light bursting from the sun. They thrive still, for a little while, a reminder of the light that will not touch the very top of the sky again until summer.
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