The end of the line for summer.
Fall is ravenous for cool days,
The crunch of brightly, colored leaves underfoot,
The smoky sweetness of wood fires,
And the sharp, crisp bite of fresh picked apples.
The loon’s soul-filled cry at night mourns with me the passage of another season
And the loss of the symphony of children’s laughter,
As they barreled off docks and rope swings
Into the warm, golden waters of Watchic.