A page of the book is lifting, rising and settling with the wind.
The angle of the sun is shifting. The feel of the air is changing. Autumn is calling.
The heat and the air have adopted a mellower, more golden tone, one that lulls and rocks to sleep. No more the brash, exuberant summer brightness shouting to wake up and come play. Not yet the sharp, crisp note bidding you to breathe deep and sigh.
Brown, scented pine needles are showering down with a shake from a playful squirrel.
Leaves are starting to crisp and color on the edges. There is more crunch and color beneath my feet.
A small maple’s change of dress is still incomplete — autumnal hues of green, yellow, and red all slide into one another like the ripening apples burdening the limbs in the orchard.
Mornings come later. Evenings are chillier.
But the need for scarves and sweaters has not quite arrived.
Like the caw of the wheeling blackbird, I can hear Fall’s greetings, echoing, beckoning.