The Fall

It is the fall. September. Football is being played, trombonists and trumpeters are being taught that playing as loud as they can is right and good. Somewhere near me, somebody is selling unpasteurized apple cider, but I don't know where. If it is you, and you are reading this, please let me know.

It is the fall. The post-summer, the pre-winter. The thing-that-is-itself, but in it's own way claims it's identity by being not things. Fall is cooler than summer, but warmer than winter. Fall is when school starts. It is when breaks end. It is when the leaves change, when they know that they can no longer perform the work that they are supposed to do. Perhaps there are things that I can shed, in solidarity with the trees. Perhaps, but I cannot think of anything right now. Fall is not winter, and it is not summer. Fall is not spring. Fall is relative. I have been told that everything is relative. I think that there may be some truth to that.

It is the fall. The fall was bound to happen. What goes up must come down, people say. They mean it, too. They are right. Things fall apart. Stability begets instability. A clean house becomes a messy house. A full stomach becomes an empty stomach. A tired dog becomes an energetic dog. The fall. The fall. Fall is a feeling. A state of mind. A smell. A taste. Butternut squash. With butter. And brown sugar. And a glass of unpasteurized apple cider. With bite.