The woods no longer vibrate with the songs of insects and birds.
Only the rustling of the wind through the dry leaves is heard.
Although the year round residents visit the feeders, it is in comparison a lonely quiet.
The young hummingbirds are gone, but I tend the feeders for any possible stragglers.
Plants that never wilt are seemingly bowed in prayer for rain.
While others are languishing, the red lycoris is fresh due to its underground reserve.
Every cloud teases our heart’s hope of the resurrecting power held within.