A cloudy day, the sky seems wrapped in cotton wool, blunting the edges of this new time, of the day that would already seem later than it is were there a sun with which to measure it.

Walking home yesterday, our nearest star already prepping for a 5:06 setting, I marveled at how comfortable I feel on the Reston trails. Crushed acorns underfoot. New vistas from leaf fall. A buck chasing a doe. A bird sound I don’t recognize — maybe a visitor on his way south.

As the season turns, I feel a sense of coziness in the woods. Each bent branch a hymn of praise. Each stretch of shining lake water a benediction.

With fewer light-filled hours to be outside, each one is more precious.