September

(My apologies to Carl Sandburg; his poem can be found here).

September comes
on little cat feet. 

It creeps across the hay field
as the sun sinks low
and soon August is gone.


Yesterday evening, the last night of August for this year,  I went out to shut the chickens into their coop for the night and was surprised to see a fog stealing in across the hay field.  The day had been humid, yet for some reason, I didn't expect to find fog at dusk.

I don't know why it surprised me so, because when I took a moment to think about it, September does come on little cat feet: in low-lying evening fogs and thicker morning fogs.  Not loudly, with volatile weather like March bursts forth as we near the first equinox of the year.  No, the last equinox and it's month are more subdued.  They sneak up on us, leaving us to wonder where summer went, and how fall can be arriving so soon.