When squirrels are harvesting, and birds in flight appear,
By all these lovely tokens we know - September days are here.
- Helen Hunt Jackson
It is one of those taut September days. Everywhere, there's a distilled sense of perception, a sparseness, every line firm and unredundant. The leaves are beginning to turn, and nothing is wasted or goes unseen.
Walking in the garden, I feel the first intimation of fall in the air - that smell of a decadent, overripe autumn, rich and swollen. It is crisp and windless, with the clouds overhead looking like perfect cutouts of themselves. It is still hot outside, though the sun has begun to lean to the west.
Overhead, against a sky full of yellow dust, I see the leaves of the dogwood tree beginning to blush with a tinge of color. The wind puffs its branches, and tiny yellow leaves drift down into the shade.
I pause to inspect my valiant hosta which is holding its long, pendulous white petals erect, snuggled among the stubborn green of the mint leaves, but the yellowing foliage of the hibiscus has never looked so sad. As well, the morning glory vine has dropped off its dying flowers, leaving behind small, round pods at the end of a drooping stem. Summer has ended.
Sitting on the front porch's small landing, I watch the patch of black-eyed Susan tuck itself in for the night. The heat of the day has slithered away like an unwanted guest, reluctantly letting in a teasing chill.
Just as I begin to flop back to savor the blissful moment, an obstinate ash maple leaf is dislodged in the wind and gracefully spirals onto my lap. I perk up to the playful nudge and say loudly, Well, hello!
When September days are here is my favorite season - bringing summer's best of weather and autumn's best of cheer.
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