Long fields and of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the fields the road runs by
√√To many-towered Camelot.
– Alfred, Lord Tennyson, "The Lady of Shalott"
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9FoICm7QmeqLN2oWxoITld2Gc7SOmT2rsTnjTyiy1tbcNlAiNaFZaIz4QNXv0Yrn7JImsPq5xqm0Fq4Akh9egH9xxYDaJkyjLX-9W6XoTgJNC-4EuiRIUgewzQ0D2XnFZ7mRnRuXgJzI/s320/IMG_1484.a.jpg)
Autumn has surely arrived. The barley is ripening; the trees' leaves are turning. The sky is clear and cloudless. The sun is bright and warm, but not too hot. A gentle breeze freshens the air. A glorious time of the year.
(This picture was taken at a spot about five minutes drive from our home.
The river, in the background, curves north from here,
and cuts through the middle of our many-towered city.)
√
The river, in the background, curves north from here,
and cuts through the middle of our many-towered city.)
√