Season's Cusp

Sunlight dapples patterns in the yards adjoining mine; through a chill glass wall I watch morning shadow retreat. Golden light gilds trees with giant brush. Northfacing window allows me not sunrise, but its effects. No crickets left alive to chirp me a good morning, the only birdsong harsh fastmoving voice of passing crows. Autumn has arrived, and with it, the anticipation of biting winter, breath visible, pinching rosy the exposed cherub cheeks of children. Autumn has arrived, and with it, the sad farewell to beachy heatdrenched days and heavy, scent-laden nights, alive with tiny creatures. Autumn has arrived. The world is now an apple, hard, crunchy, flavorful, dripping with juice. Dig hands and fingers, face and feet deep into delicious.