The light has changed.
The seasons develop an identity crisis before releasing their hold on the year. It is mid-August, but the golden slant of the morning light hints at late September. The sun is no longer breaking through the trees and onto my face to serve as alarm clock. Crickets sing as they did in June, but now their song is a sad one, an elegy for the fullness of summer.
It is mid-August, I can’t relinquish the summer yet. But the light has changed.