September Morning | Tired now, from over-active months of summer, valley fields resist the call of day, lying quietly, still slumbering under a blanket of gossamer cloud. A few are up: a tuft of goldenrod, perhaps a maple or two, a walker passing in the road, passed herself by a pickup lazily grinding from third into foruth gear. Soon, the sun, already awake for hours like an industrious mother, will pull back these bed covers from the rest of the valley. "Waken, old house on the hill! Get up you spiders and spin new webs! We've more yet to do before the longe deep sleep that lies ahead.