As I write, with the door open in the milking barn, the rain is falling in a deluge. The surrounding hills have vanished behind a veil of stair rods and the drains are gargling and guttural. We wait for the sound of a crack and a crash as the poplars lose a limb or worse, their entire footing. Never heavier than now in full, late season foliage. 

The garden bows, weighted, wet and heavy with seed. Overhanging the paths that just a couple of days ago, in dry September weather, were passable. We push our way through, drenched from the waist down to find free footfall in the clearings that still allow us to take it all in. The verbena, which just last weekend were so full of air, are bent as if touching their toes and the bedraggled pennisetum now soaked and motionless.  A dry day will see the planting mostly bounce back, but autumn is surely upon us.