I felt it. The chill that enters your elbows, spreads along your arms and down your legs. It makes your nose water. I smelled it. In the musky layering of freshly fallen leaves, cinnamon and smoke. I may have heard it, but I don't remember. I think that is yet to come when Wink and I crunch across the leaves, or listen to the pounding rain. Aaah, then I did hear it on my car's sunroof, shut for the season but still a window directly up to the sky.
And I've seen it. In the deep blue night sky.
In the warming of the colors of the fields.
In the angle of the light and sun. Golden, warm, nostalgic, bittersweet. The color of mustard and the late bloom of an orange dahlia.
In the licking flames of a bonfire.
And of a produce stand turned into a concert venue.
Of pumpkins and a night time tractor ride.
And the blur of a cornfield as lit at night by farm equipment.
It's time to warm by the fire and watch the sparksfly, hold hands and dig out those gloves and matching scarves. For wearing things with texture, like corduroy and nubby sweaters and suede boots. It's time to live, and to love each other. And to be warmed.