I returned last night from Thanksgiving spent with my Dad in Virginia - and woke up this morning with the first frost of the season in my garden. It's a light frost, and only evident in the open area, where my vegetable beds and large (and grower larger) perennial border is - much of the garden is protected by the outstretched arms of the live oaks and bald cypresses and sweet gums.
I've always loved the first frost - and I think it's because when I was in Michigan, in graduate school, the first frost was usually a heavy one, and made the fields around the farmhouse I was renting look magical. It would be as if, overnight, the entire field was decorated - each blade of grass glistened, each seed pod was etched in crystal. That first frost ushered in a new season, but with such beauty that you scarely noticed the cold.