Fall was a special season during my childhood years. It was that moment in time between the buzz of the bees with lazy calls of the western meadowlarks and the first dusting of snow that quietly put all the larkspur and Indian paint brushes to sleep for the winter. When Jack Frost blew his chilly breath down our valley, the cottonwoods and aspen burst forth in a riot of color, the final crescendo before the coming of the winter whites. Days would be warm encouraging a final burst of energy from man and animal before the dormant time to come. Saturday, September 22, 2012
Wyoming Autumn
Fall was a special season during my childhood years. It was that moment in time between the buzz of the bees with lazy calls of the western meadowlarks and the first dusting of snow that quietly put all the larkspur and Indian paint brushes to sleep for the winter. When Jack Frost blew his chilly breath down our valley, the cottonwoods and aspen burst forth in a riot of color, the final crescendo before the coming of the winter whites. Days would be warm encouraging a final burst of energy from man and animal before the dormant time to come. 
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