autumn has arrived.

this year, it came without the precursive struggle of an extended indian summer. rather, on its first day, the rains came, and for a few nights thereafter the winds picked up. gusting strongly through the trees on the street and percussing together the wooden shades drawn over the just open window in my room and rustling the tiny metal chimes in the garden, the winds acted the part of a boisterous and overly punctual ringmaster welcoming in the next performance with hyperbolic promises as summer was still ushering its serene act offstage.

still, after these lofty promotions, autumn emerged from the wings without urgency and with a quiet dignity, with not a hint of the hype that the ringmaster winds had blazoned. as it grounded itself in the spotlight, the hue deepened from warm and golden to marigold and sienna. my pupils widened in the darkening tone and an awakening began to stir within me; as my eyes began grasping for light, my sprit began foraging for revision. i lifted my gaze to find myself at a distinctive beanstalk of a post in the rusted wire and wood fence that had long been visible only at a great distance across rolling hills and tall field grasses. i laid my hand on the wood, worn and carved so differently than i'd imagined it would be, and i spoke quietly to it. i told it how, for a long time, i'd imagined arriving at the reach that it marked, a distance i thought i could travel in dreams. i admired its stature and all that had gone into making it stand so tall, a beacon across the landscape: its extensive support system, its physical resilience....