The ferns are fading. They’ve turned crusty and brown. In some light, perhaps, they appear golden. But that’s a stretch.

I know it’s only seasonal change, but there’s something about ferns that speak more than most plants of youth and vigor. And I feel bad for them in this sorry state.

I think back to April and the earliest tendrils, how exciting it is to see these strange things emerge from the cool and leaf-strewn soil.

I think of how well they have served us through the summer, how faithfully they have waved in the breeze, how cannily they have outwitted the hungry deer that stalk these parts.

Yes, they will be back next year, I know. And I’ll watch them unfurl and come into their own once again, perhaps even spread, as they are wont to do. But it won’t be these ferns. These ferns … are fading.