september

It's an apples-and-caramel-dip kind of morning.

The air is laced with a soft chill and woodsmoke, heady and sweet like hickory. A sharp breathful is almost strong enough to taste. Here and there along the ryegrass, tapered fingers of sunlight poke through white sky, brightening beaded rain into a field of jewels.

The wind rustles with secrets, awakening me from summer's languid dream, my pulse stirred and quickened with the magic that heralds autumn.