It’s Autumn now, there’s no denying it.
It doesn’t have to be chilly or crisp at the beginning. You know Autumn because there’s a subtle but unmistakable shift in the light. And there’s the smell which is a stronger cue, but a secondary one. Secondary because some trees really do drop their leaves before the pistol goes off (I’m looking at you Catalpa).
On Sunday I took my Five-Year-Old Zita on an Autumn bike ride down a country lane and a tromp over railroad tracks and through a forgotten field to an old stone walled cemetery (complete with creaky wrought-iron gate). We read september poems and shared a crisp apple and spoke the names on the crooked gravestones.
(click for slightly larger version).