My wife pointed this out to me this morning: the first red leaf. The first sign of autumn in my little piece of what Ruby Sara calls the “fiercely wild urban midwest”.
“How frail a thing is Beauty,”
I said, “when every breath
She gives the vagrant summer
But swifter woos her death.
For his the star dust troubles,
For this have ages rolled;
To deck the wood for bridal
And slay her with the cold.”
— Willa Cather, “I sought the wood in summer”
But I’m jumping the gun. The days are getting shorter as we approach the autumnal equinox next week. But it’s still hot and my allergies are still giving me hell. It’s time to soak in every ounce of sunlight while I can, every ounce of green, every ounce of blue sky, to store up for the dark, grey winter months.