This is not autumn. It is warm, leaves are not changing, birds have not flown south. This is not autumn.

Black squirrels are gathering nuts in an easy manner. They pace themselves. Easy come, easy go. They’re off track too.

Even the mums seem out of place. Colors are bright. Yet there is no morning frost resting on them. Not even a heavy dew.

And rain. It has not fallen. The earth is dry. Hoping winter will run its course. Replenish what summer has taken.

This is not autumn. This is not autumn.