I was not prepared.  I am never quite prepared for the realization that late fall is setting in, that the songbirds flying at night and the flocks of geese throughout the day heading for southern climes is a solid manifestation of nature's design from mild to malign, though some may not quite it that way.  Malign, in my estimation, because of the death of so many beautiful plants.  Not those flora that are accustomed as plants and trees native to the geology and elements of our climate, but those which we introduce and are too tender to withstand frosts.

We view our gardens daily, and appreciate their display, their architecture, colour, variations, textures and fragrance, beckoning the eye to feast on all of that beauty.  And then, suddenly, all it takes is one night's deep frost and wind, and the following morning they are gone, all of them, colours disappeared, shape and form dissolved as their molecules turn from life-giving moisture to death-delivering crystallization.

And so, with sorrow I must acknowledge the inevitable; emotionally unprepared but logical to the reality of what a lifetime of observation has exposed me to, of which I have been a witness.  True, we do celebrate all of our seasons, for each brings a beauty of its own.  But the nostalgia that autumn specializes in as we watched leaves that have turned crimson, gold, russet, spiral off trees and sprinkle themselves liberally on the ground, remind us of universal entropy and the evolution of revolution from season to season, death and rebirth.