There's a moment in autumn when most of the leaves have fallen from the trees, but winter's bite isn't in the air yet. My garden is tired, but not ready to go fully to sleep. The hydrangeas still have color in their blousy blooms, and the roses are putting on their last show of the year. 

It's a time to work. Cutting back blackberries. Painting the guest room. Making decorative pillows, finally dealing with those pesky bits of odd laundry that can't go in the wash with the rest of the regular stuff, decluttering in preparation for decorating and inviting guests over for various holiday things. 

It's also a time to write. Writing happens throughout the year, but like knitting, there's a season during which some writers spend a lot more time working on their projects. Short days and long nights, storms, and cold weather keep us in more than usual. And there's a dream-like quality to a world going into dormancy. Writing is the stuff of dreams.

I'm starting to dream more. Time to write.