After harvest, the garden grows sleepy. I too rest after raking out tomato, squash and zucchini remnants. Dry, twisted vines disintegrate to mulch as I pull. This season of colorful, chaotic growth unravels into quiet repose – a long, dusty exhale before the cold sets in. In this liminal dusk, a broad bed of marigolds still blooms brilliantly. Cousins to cempasúchil – flor de muertos – they burn defiantly in the midst of disruption and decay, they shine against the dying of the light. In my half sleep, I am filled with thanks for the fruiting abundance of the harvest, the turning of the wheel, and the little fires that light our way.