It's morning, or at least I think it is morning. The almost-frigid fingers of the late-August wind touch my face, seem to promise the long twilight of autumn that leads only to the longer sleep ahead. It seems too soon to be feeling this chill touch and hearing the earthy song of summer's end. Our dusty, haughty, distant summer sun did little to warm old bones nor did bright summer clouds do much to soak the parched soil with the nectar of the sky. Yet, here at the peak, when summer's reign should be supreme, the northern winds cry bitter tears upon the leaves and on the roof, to drip steadily from astonished August eaves...
Rivulets run from the edge of the eaves,
Splash on the puddles and soak falling leaves.
Cold-shower breezes move curtains aside,
Probe with cold fingers from which I can't hide.
Summer's warm voice is nowhere to be found,
And rich with the loamy smell of the ground,
Autumn's dark baritone whispers its song -
Barely heard now, for it does not belong
In Summer's not yet defeated domain,
Should not be hiding in soft summer rain,
Or whispering down from gray leaden skies -
Chanting its promises, secrets, and lies.
Silent remain till it colors the leaves,
And let the summer rain drip from the eaves...