Gratitude ᚹᚷᛃ

Walking the perimeter of the meadow, I breath in the scent of fallen leaves beneath a sky brushed with cirrus clouds—mare’s tails drifting across the bright autumn blue. The season has just passed its peak of color; leaves loosen and dance toward the earth, fluttering in the cool, brisk wind that snaps the flags and stirs the senses awake. The trees at the base of Brandywine Creek State Park’s sledding hill are still golden, but bare limbs remind me that winter is not far away now.

The long grasses, brown and sighing, whisper of rest. Empty milkweed pods rattle softly, their silky treasures already carried away. Above, buzzards wheel and tip on the currents, patient and eternal.

In this moment—this single, shining breath of the year—I feel the pulse of life and the quiet voices of the land’s spirits. Their presence hums in the wind and the soil, in the warmth of the sun and the promise of the turning season.

Here and now, I am grateful—for life, for this place, and for the sacred weaving that holds us all. To stand in this golden transience is to touch joy itself, fleeting and forever.