The Turning

The wind is harassing the dry leaves around the parking lot. It sounds like rain. The air whispers chills at the window, and I remember Zach is riding his bike home.

I am not cold, nor am I displeased with the dry, falling season. The grass begins to brown around the edges and we put on our jackets. We turn on yellow lights and pull out an extra blanket. We prepare. We can vegetables.
Soon, the long human hibernation, the wool scarves, the key-less starters. Blanketed in our homes by the white world and the soft darkness of long nights.

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