There’s a tree—not sure what kind—that sits at the top of the hill opposite our house. Every year, on or about August 7, I look up to inspect the hardiness of the green in its leaves because this particular tree is the first indicator that we are turning from summer to autumn.

It was right on time this year, showing the unmistakeable signs of its weakening chlorophyll, the physical act that reveals the yellow pigment that’s been masked all summer.

We still have time with our green canopy but our big ash tree is starting to shed its leaves. They dot our yard and stick to our shoes so that we’re picking them up from the floor every time we go in or out.

But this morning, as I hung up laundry, I was struck by the dazzle of morning light being filtered by the maple that anchors the top of the bluff that holds our home.

I say this often but we are so fortunate to live in such a remarkably beautiful place.