Dear Liza,
The sunshine has returned! I thought it was gone until Spring, but this week has been as bright and dry as August in Salinas.
I have pictures but no words, so I will borrow some from the English poet John Keats, who wrote it in the fall of 1819.
To Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfullness
Close-bosomed friend of the maturing sun
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel-shells 
With sweet kernal; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells…
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too.
Dear Liza 