As the days stretch in all their summer glory it occurs to me, with the quick turn of color in trees that is more due to the stress of drought than the snap of cold, that Fall is, indeed coming. What is it about this time of year that makes me forget the long, gray days of winter and early spring when green was still a distant memory? Why do I find myself tiring of the deep greens and the murmur of leaves on trees when a storm approaches and they flip, hiding their faces? There is a single, yellow leaf, a casualty, and I think of canary yellows and russets and orange and the fiery red of maple. Nights when I leave the windows open and glory in the warmth of a blanket, sleeping with crisp air.
I tell myself that patience is indeed a virtue, and the turn of the seasons will find us all too soon.
For now? Chapter 20 – The Chop (Click the banner to be brought to the story)