They compete remarkably well, and gradually turn our thoughts toward the pastimes that honor them best. How can twilight reach this deep a blue, this early, and this soon? Memories of another season begin to stir. Then comes a day when the winds pick up a bit more persistently than the idle business of a summer breeze could possibly explain. Leaves are not as dense, nor grass as thick the green has peaked and fallen back, and returns a measure of transparency to those few margins of the wild with which we still engage. The evening shadows have already entered retrograde, swinging back toward another equinox. Just as a drink is gradually watered by the ice that chills it, now is when we begin to perceive the accumulated debt of pleasure and convenience, deferred but coming due. May and June had days of similar perfection, but they were carried upon a quickening current of promise and ambition September poses and postures on a theme of August’s success. It is a subtle signal, easily missed, as with a resting on laurels, or the pride before a fall.
The days are still warm, and the evenings mild, but even the best of them lack a certain component - call it a depth of character, or a strength of conviction - whose absence is the first evidence of a fleeing momentum. It is always in September when something in the fall of the light, or the movement of the air, first begins to betray the summer’s hesitation. Ah, poor man, there are many pleasures which he will not know!” “I fear that he who walks over these fields a century hence will not know the pleasure of knocking off wild apples.
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