On The Brink of Autumn

Writing outside this morning, I have to wear a sweater.  The mug of tea when I hold it melts back the dampness in my hands.  Low grey clouds hide the mid-morning sun.  Last week, I noticed the change in light when we got back from New York.  While the perception that the morning light creeps over the hills at a later moment is slight, there is no missing how much earlier dusk became night. 

The plants seem tired.  This is the time of year when weeks of heat and no rain have us anticipating autumnal rains -- when will they come?  Before the equinox?  By the next full moon?  Will they wait seven more weeks until Halloween?   The neighbor's apple tree hangs heavy with fruit; it's not yellowing yet, but other trees in the neighborhood are.  The grapes, the sunflowers, the cosmos, are tinged yellow along some leaves.  Acorns and maple-wings are accumulating along the dusty sidewalks. 

The sun's broken free from the clouds and is tinting the yard yellow-orange.  I can't decide if the overcast is regular clouds or if there's some smoke from the nearest forest fire in it.  It's still early enough that the arbor vita cast fingers of light and shadow across the dried and patchy grass.  I've swung the deck's umbrella eastward to shade my eyes from the glare; my left forearm, bathed in light, feels like it's wrapped in a heating pad.  The breeze is still chilly, though -- and when a curdling of cloud gets in front of the sun, I'm glad for the sweater.  This afternoon will get into the seventies, and I'm sure I'll be able to ditch the sweater (and lap blanket).