2004-12-05 - 3:34 p.m.
Not being home now, I’m missing a favorite season. The second summer after the first killing frost known as Indian. The yellow, orange and red leaves not yet blown down radiate the warmth of the afternoon sun. The leaves already down: their scent the smell of dirt and rebirth, crunch beneath your feet. Breezes not yet chill remind you of summer past and winter to come. There’s a still quality to the air even though the leaves spiral on the currents of the invisible wind. The rustling of the leaves have a harder sound; the receding sap leaving them dried and clicking in the air stream. It’s the last time around for t-shirts and sandals but you don’t mind. Soon your favorite sweater will come out of the closet. I can smell the lanolin just thinking about it. These things would be more than memories if I were home now.
