(I'm going through a bit of an Instagram craze at the moment, so my trusty Nikon has been brutally ignored the last couple of weeks. I'm sure I'll come around again.)
While playing with the treasures from summer, the vivid colours of autumn have played in our outside views, and now, the leaves have almost all blown away from their trees, and that naked, grey time is approaching. November. Not my favourite month.
The mornings now are darker every day, and I make sure the candle is lit on our breakfast table, no matter how much in a rush we are. Ronja makes sure a little piece of fridge poetry is left behind when she goes to school, and when she comes home, she is happy, but tired, and her hair is messy from wearing her wooly hat. She does her homework, she tries hard.
As this is written, she is out fishing with my dad in the pitch dark, I expect a breath of fresh air sweeping through the house as they come back, and her excited energy which will soon transform into sleepiness. It is late, the house is warm from the fire being lit.
Mr. Payne is in the barn. He's been there every evening this week, and I can hear him hammering away in there, I see his shadow move across the room through the window. He is making a stable for our horse. I make him apple crumble with fruit from our garden.
Freja is asleep, the baby in my belly is awake, my eyes are sore. I have knitting to do.