This piece of writing has enchanted me. The writer is deeply rooted in these magic mountians that I now call home.
Oh, good Lord, the chill has arrived. As much as Fall in the mountains inspires us with its palette of gold and firelit scarlet and melancholy reverie, that chill is not a welcome visitor. No, not at all, not for us summer folk. That chill stays too long and gets more comfortable the longer it settles, and before you know it, the crisp air turns into full blown winter brown and bluster enough to cut you in two. But until then, the harvest has come. And let’s all hope we’ve sown something worth reaping.
And in the meantime, Granny has those persimmon seeds all spread out on the table, all of them cut through and opened like tiny pearls of wisdom. Spoons, she says, and shakes her head. Sure enough, there are spoons inside the persimmon seeds, and good Lord, soon enough we’ll be looking at heavy snow instead…
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