In suburban Boston on a late October afternoon, the temperature is a delightfully unseasonable 81°F (27°C). The leaves of the black walnut, Rose of Sharon, and the mighty oak are glowing like golden syrup in the dwindling light as the sun falls toward the horizon.

Blue jays complain loudly to anyone who’ll listen about their usual concerns. Countless juncos flit about doing heaven knows what. A downy woodpecker marks his territory by banging away at the eaves. I chase him off with words worthy of my father, “If you want to pay the mortgage, you can have at it.” He retreats to a branch in a Japanese maple, chirping at me from the safety of his crimson-shrouded perch. Trash talk from a dinosaur.

Languid strands of spider’s silk float from the deck railing. The webs are incomplete, abandoned, maybe just a means of travel as I’m finding their architects everywhere inside the house. I’ll have the mortgage conversation with the spiders, too.

The warm breeze lies. Winter will come on schedule. The wildlife isn’t fooled. Squirrels argue over the coveted walnut fruit that litters the ground. The grey squirrel thinks he stands a chance, but the red one makes up in tenacity what he lacks in size. Tomorrow the ground will be bare. Their efficiency rivals that of a PGA grounds crew.

The sun dips lower. Light fades so quickly at this time of day now. The breeze is cooler. The temperature retreats as quickly as the light. In the shifting sunlight I catch a glimpse of a chipmunk stuffing acorns into his expansive cheeks. He takes what he can carry and darts away into the underbrush at the edge of the woods. Soon he and his buddies will be underground for the winter.

Watching the business of nature as it prepares for the months to come, I realize I should go inside. Whether one lives in a nest, a burrow, or a house in suburbia, supper isn’t going to cook itself.