I think autumn is beckoning. I can see its witchy fingers lengthening, the dark and daring shades. They leave shadowy scars across summer’s honey-colored skin and I welcome that fleshy damage. It is a stinging reminder that soon it will be time to leave. It was a heady three months, but the equinox of bronze harvests is coming and the dog days of August must now slip back into their collars.
Cats, which for weeks lay like silk carpets of muscle and bone on baking sidewalks, became emboldened by the muzzled days. They basked like soft icons in the long afternoons; in shadows stretching like Nosferatu, they clenched their eyes and listened for the onset of the hunting season.
I too listened for the harvest-colored season – the fields and orchards in the sky. I smelled the wheat, the cherries, and the corn that rejoiced above my head. I heard the hunter’s moon rise through their rustling acres. And I so wished I could taste the atmospheric bounty that ripened above me.
It’s possible that I soon will. When the days are no longer heavy; steaming under a layer of captured heat and moisture – a boiling, constricted mist. When the nights are clear and the planets glitter like sequins in a diamante veil. And the moon, swathed in her stark and chilly shroud will roam at will, dressed for the harvest, bearing her starry scythe.
But there is some waiting to be done. Still, occasionally, a cold and sly wind will slip through the dense weather. Or I will see a leaf or two – tinted with ginger or caramel – at my feet. It isn’t much.
But it is enough for me to know.
That autumn is beckoning.