After a week of chilly autumn rain, it dawned splendid again today, the kind of weather that Colorado is famous for.
Mike decided it was the day to turn of the drip system and pick the pumpkins. They have been growing well, with little Q knocking on each one and then kissing it in turn, like some sort of ritual, every day when we walk down the path.
They look bigger and more splendid somehow, snipped from their tangle of dying vines and set on display, guarding the front door.
Meanwhile it was my day to plant the bulbs, sprinkle them with bonemeal and fertilizers, and bury them under their thin layer of high-plains soil. Now, if only I can keep those punk squirrels away, they will sleep out the long, cold winter dreaming of gentle spring breezes.