The muddled sound of bells clanging. What a deep and mournful echo. Why do I want to cry every time I hear a church bell in the distance? Today is the first day of fall. Not by any calendar’s notation. But, I can feel it. Closed toed shoes and thick jeans are on the horizon. Shiver bumps on my arms from the breeze mingling with the misty air, a sensation I haven’t had in months. A hot pot of coffee, brewing slowly on my counter. I’ll drink mug after mug and still feel morose. Jets hidden behind a blanket of grey clouds, concealed but still audible. Like some banshee wailing, unseen, bringing an omen of death. It’s sweater weather, I can taste the September apples, the rich meat of butternut squash and cinnamon. The trees are already toying with the idea of transformation and rebirth. Like a tiny reflection of sunlight at the tip of their leaves, orange and yellow, ombré hued tentacles beginning to droop and huddle in groups. The ground has that spongey quality, the air is rich with the sour smell of decomposing plant matter. Before I’m ready it will be dark by five and when I look out my window I won’t see green but rather the faces of my forlorn neighbors staring back at me, searching too for that elusive streak of red from our cardinal friend. Straining to hear the mockingbird, whose songs kept us awake, cursing, through hot, sticky nights. Where have they gone? we will wonder. Why are the leaves falling? my daughter will ask. Because, my love, nothing is permanent.