As sometimes happens as the seasons change there is a splendid tangle. The juncos are back, speaking of autumn. The robins are in the holly tree but their song is springlike. I thought I saw a thrush which would mean, god forbid, snow. But it must have been a thrasher. The violets bloomed again. Grass can be almost seen growing. Leaves are changing. I have sandals on but the socks are wool.