I like to tell time by plants.
The fireweed is finished flowering. That means the end of summer. It’s turning into cotton, but it’s leaves haven’t turned a fiery red-orange yet. That means no frost so far.
The devil’s club across the creek is turning yellow, signaling three weeks until the first frost.
But as I sit on the deck in a moment of rare sunshine, and see my deck flower pots shaking off two weeks of rain, it’s hard to think of fall or winter. Instead I hang on to the memory of a decent, but short, Alaskan summer. And I’ll keep enjoying it until the fireweed leaves turn red.
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