Traditional End of Summer

I CAN SMELL AUTUMN returning, wafting through my parking lot under a moonlit sky, the scent of smoke from a trattoria in town reminding me of the fireplaces that will glow with life in a short span of weeks.

I can see its return, crisp and maroon, in the piles of Japanese maple leaves accreting around my parking space, and in the orange tips of the trees that line the eastern edge of my company's property, trees catching the first flames of fall.

I can see the lights of upper Manhattan burning across the Hudson from Edgewater, unhindered by shimmering heat or noxious humidity. Birthplace of the Beats, you lie in plain view and soon will be wreathed in cool nights to go with your cool bop prosody.

I await you, autumn. I await rebirth into you.