The Morning After The mellow morning air brought with it the feel of autumn. We stood at the top of the garden appraising the roses. One rose bush looked mildly marcescent, but the other was a clear survivor of the night’s disturbance. An unidentified bird loudly proclaimed a brand-new, exuberant day. “It’s a day for starting over,” I said to Paige, reaching out and pulling her close. “That all depends,” she responded, neither settling in nor pulling away. “Which one of those rose bushes are we?” Knute Skinner