Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
The first real cold blast came through over the weekend. There is now the distinct chill of frost in the air in the early morning. The brisk north wind signals the coming of the end of my favorite time of year. The cold fingers of that first frost cover the woods down by the stream signalling to the trees that the end is near for another season. It is time to rest, time to go gently into that good night of winter. But the trees refuse to listen to the howling from the north. Over a matter of days, the green and yellow rages orange bright and red deep in a final act of defiance against the coming long dark winter. And we stand back and bask its glory.