Skies are blue, foliage still yellow and orange, but soon light will leach out of autumn days, dregs of darkness in its place. Leaves already fall from skeletal branches, scattering across aging gardens, gathering in sullen piles along curbstones. A few brave flowers stand their ground, deepening their colors in defiance of cold mornings.
The sun hurries across the sky, blown by a chill wind, dreading the darkness to come. Soon trappings of death will deck windows and fences. Pumpkins will shine gaping grins into black nights where the hidden wait. A cold anticipation sharpens with each passing hour. Change crouches in growing shadows. It will come.