The daffodils still bloom at the front walk, though they have long bloomed and wilted from the spring. Fall is coming, and the early morning chill has the leaves thinking of changing colors. Her thoughts of riding up and down the country lane still float in the morning mist. The basket that once held the spring flowers on the front of her bike has held up far better than her dreams. The shattering stillness of decay envelopes the last good things of the childhood home.
(from a farm house in the Kansas Flinthills along the scenic stone fence byway).