The dew this morning is glistening on the spider webs in the grass. The sun outlines the delicate webs with dewdrop jewels and makes what, as children, we called “fairy tablecloths.”

I can once again feel the waning season in the early morning sun, which is revealing the spiders’ craftsmanship. We are suspended in that golden instant between the seasons where the crickets hum their perpetual late summer song. Here and there, a red leaf has already appeared, leading the way to autumn. The roadside is lined with asters and the plumes of goldenrod as if in a pageant for the Goldenrod King of Autumn.

My garden is a revolution of weeds. Cilantro gone to seed and the spent stalks of gladiolus have overrun the Thanksgiving sage and thyme. The herbs themselves have become tangled in morning glory vines. All that’s left are the bobbing shapes of the spectacular pumpkins my husband, John, grew this summer. Large, with curving, ribbed rinds; they are worthy candidates to chauffeur any Cinderella to a midnight ball. But fairy tales notwithstanding, they will make great soup as well as jack-o-lanterns for Halloween.

Today is my day off from work. The sun that shone in the morning is gone, and now it has started to rain again. The heavy-headed sunflowers were dripping with rain when I ran out to get some parsley for the pot roast I am cooking. The pot roast will be our first supper of seasonal comfort food. As I peeled the potatoes I listened to the radio news describing the evacuation of the Carolina coast in anticipation of Hurricane Florence.

And, now, as I write this, we are waiting for the UPS to bring the new blades for the brush hog. My nephew is visiting and is continuing to mow sections of our old, overgrown farm. He is trying to get as much done as rain, mud and broken machinery will allow in the time he has available before winter sets in.

These are today’s concerns, fastening me to this moment of time and place. Here in this space between summer and fall.

Meanwhile, the Goldenrod King is sitting on his throne of stag-horn sumac, idly playing with milkweed pods. He throws their silky seeds to the wind and contemplates his gilded kingdom. He hears the cricket’s song. Too soon, too soon, they sing, this golden season will be gone.