Like heavy gates on rusty iron hinges, Summer slowly swings with a throaty groan into Autumn.
And as Summer turns, so does his mistress. Her atmosphere thinning fast – losing quick her weight and warmth in languid descent toward Winter. She will kiss the carbon sky with cool lips, and dress the heavens with what’s left of her bright robes – exchanging them for the naked North winds. She will embrace the hot earth. She will make her bed among the mountains, and she will gently blow into the valleys her frosty breath – wave upon wave – until Summer inevitably surrenders to her.
And so all the world will be washed in his dying hues, as the greens of his life conform by degrees to the dullish reds of age, the faded browns of too much time, the withered greys of death.
He makes no protest. He surrenders willingly. For here in the negative spaces between seasons, where time churns slow and life is most vibrant, he knows he’s not alone.