Brrr! The first snow flakes fell on Montreal today, and high places in the outlying areas are reporting a couple of centimeters of snow. This is perfectly in keeping with the order of things: my birthday is November 8, and in the many, many years we've lived in Montreal never has there not been at least a little snow before that date.
From mid-April until as late as I can stand it I eat breakfast on the back porch--nothing fancy, just cereal, juice and the newspaper. Sitting out there, looking at our small garden and observing how it changes with the seasons gives me great pleasure. But this morning I think will be the last for this year. Not all the leaves are off the trees, the grass is still green and the begonia I forgot to bring in--all the other house plants came in around the first of the month--has not wilted. Yet I found myself shivering, having trouble unfolding the paper in the breeze, generally being uncomfortable.
On the weekend I'll have to cut some of the plants back, save seeds from asters and rudebeckia, rake up the leaves have fallen. In the meantime I'll sit by the fire and keep myself warm, like Robin in the Mother Goose rhyme:
The north wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow,
And what will the robin do then,
He'll sit in a barn (or as my mother would say 'by the fire"),
To keep himself warm,
And hide his head under his wing,
That last is, I guess, better than hiding your head in the sand!