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We came back  from our 9 day trip to Texas ... it's nice to be able to call Colorado "home." Our trip was the first one we've taken out of state since moving here almost 2.5 years ago. Our trip was 14 hours one way, through flat New Mexico and Texas land ... as we returned and our scenery changed from desert and windmill upon and windmill, cows and corn, ghost towns and too many Dairy Queens to count - then finally a few rolling hills dotted with gold and red, then great big hills, then tall snow peaked mountains and then the "Welcome to Colorado" sign, for the first time in a long time I felt deep inside that I have a place I belong - I have a home. It was a good feeling to know that we belong here, that we like it here, that this is most likely where we will be and where our kids will be raised. 

So we are back at it. Our new school books got here, I have many fall craft ideas, we have glow spiders and erasers and lots of good things to hand out at Halloween. Fall is beautiful. 

The weather is crisp but still warm and sunny, the leaves in our yard beautiful and bright, the littles in our yard evidently bigger then last year. 

This morning as I type I have hot oats with pumpkin and cinnamon simmering, the littles are cozy on the couch awaiting our day to start ... state study, painting peg dolls, and hopefully a shopping trip if I can get to it - and lots of cleaning. It's going to be a good day. 

"For ’tis the rustic boy’s delight,
Now autumn’s sun so warmly gleams,
And these ripe berries tempt his sight,
To dabble in the shallow streams.

And oft his rambles we may trace,
Delv’d in the mud his printing feet,
And oft we meet a chubby face
All stained with the berries sweet."

"The summer-flower has run to seed, And yellow is the woodland bough; And every leaf of bush and weed Is tipt with autumn’s pencil now. And I do love the varied hue, And I do love the browning plain; And I do love each scene to view, That’s mark’d with beauties of her reign. The woodbine-trees red berries bear, That clustering hang upon the bower; While, fondly lingering here and there, Peeps out a dwindling sickly flower. The trees’ gay leaves are turned brown, By every little wind undress’d; And as they flap and whistle down, We see the birds’ deserted nest." ~ John Clare (Autumn)