Mr. Sun is rising later these days, reducing his languid visits to short greetings.  He still warms my garden, but his warmth is pale and fleeting. Leaves are changing to straw yellow and dust brown before falling away, mementos of summer littering the paths.   Tree skeletons bring a grim mood. 

 I miss the liveliness of new growth.  I miss the carry-me-away fragrances of summer blooms.  And I miss the long, lingering warmth of Mr. Sun.  Spring seems so far away.  Alas.  Alas.

About the author Clifford Hui

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In the Field

Stories about people studying wild animals.

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