Anticipation

[rejectomorph]

Though the days remain summery, the nights have turned autumnal. Tonight, I watched thin clouds form and gradually obscure the stars. A chill dampness crept in the windows, and I closed them early. Soon, there may be rain. Yet I doubt that summer has breathed its last hot breath. There have been rainy Septembers here, but the common pattern is for the seasons to battle back and forth for several weeks until, at last, summer falls to inevitable autumn. Each day I look for the first signs of color in the leaves of the dogwoods and maples, and in the apples that still hang green in the orchard. The change of seasons is, to me, more interesting than are the seasons themselves. In lieu of the monotony of days one much like the other, there is constant surprise. Transitions may at times be inconvenient, but they are not dull. And, I must say, I won't be sorry to see the last of this summer's enervating days. Only the mild nights redeemed it. I can do without the mild nights, if it means cooler days. Soon, it will be smoke curling from chimneys, and the scent of ripe apples in the air. Soon, it will be rain that I hear, and not the incessant droning of summer insects. Soon.