The summer ends, and it is time
To face another way. Our theme
Reversed, we harvest the last row
To store against the cold, undo
The garden that will be undone.
We grieve under the weakened sun
To see all earth’s green fountains dried,
And fallen all the works of light.
You do not speak, and I regret
This downfall of the good we sought
As though the fault were mine. I bring
The plow to turn the shattering
Leaves and bent stems into the dark,
From which they may return. At work,
I see you leaving our bright land,
The last cut flowers in your hand.

Wendell Berry 

Half Wild: Iceland’s Incredible Horses

For centuries Icelandic horses have lived half wild and half tame. In the summer farmers drive them to the highlands, where they live without human care for months. Owned by both farmers (who sometimes keep as many as 100) and city dwellers (who board animals at local farms), rural and urban Icelanders combine forces to gather the herds from the mountains over two weeks in September. They flow into pens and are sorted, some returning with foals that owners are seeing for the first time ever. Owners know their horses by sight.

So beautiful. 

The words that make the rose bloom were also said to me.
The words told to the cypress to make it grow strong and straight,
The instructions whispered to the jasmine,
And whatever was said to the sugarcane to make it sweet,
And to the pomegranate flowers to make them blush, 
The same thing is being said to me.

Rumi

When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spend

all day among the high
branches, reaching
my ripped arms, thinking

of nothing, cramming
the black honey of summer
into my mouth; all day my body

accepts what it is. In the dark
creeks that run by there is
this thick paw of my life darting among

the black bells, the leaves; there is
this happy tongue.

-Mary Oliver