“When August and September just become memories of songs…”

Sometimes October surprises us, coming over the Potomac like a shower of warmth. We stop in the colonnade and go on in sunlight, into the Bishop’s Garden, and drink Gatorade, and talk for an hour.

Sunday was one of those days. Push away from the desk, leave your thoughts unwritten, and remember the timeless words of Gerard Manley Hopkins: “Holy crap, it’s nice outside!”

Park your trike by the door into (Indian) summer.

Among the flowers, find a bronze sundial on a 13th-century capital from a monastery near Rheims. Look: it’s medievalism o’clock.

Someone left a flower for our old friend, the satyr…

…and a bouquet of herbs, berries, and chilies at the fish pond.

And then, homeward bound—but not before pausing to note a lone Scotsman mournfully piping at sunset.

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