It is a beautiful, dry sunny Iowa afternoon and the thermometer is sitting at 85 degrees. For early September, it could be warmer, but I am glad it isn't. I am secretly wishing for the green leaves to ease into yellows, oranges, reds, and browns. I am looking forward to the faster scurrying of the squirrels as they gather their winter acorns and the silencing of the cicadas to make room for the stirrings of crickets in my basement.
I am a lover of the autumnal change of season. I look ahead to the autumn breezes, the rustling of leaves swirling in the corner of a set of perpendicular buildings. The cooler evenings, with the temperatures dipping to the point that igniting the fire pit ablaze are singing like the Sirens to me. I can taste the cider that summer apples will make and the soup to be made. Hearing those low-speaking voices echo as the trees begin to become barren and the increasing volume that the owls' screeching takes on lets me know that cooler temperatures are quickly coming and to be sure to check the woodpile so there is enough firewood to get us through the winter to come.
Summer, I respect your desire to hang on a while longer, but will not in any way be sorry to see you go.
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