The tree outside my house. Those handful of orange leaves are the pioneers of the fall. A reconnaissance party on a scouting mission behind the verdant green lines. The advance guard of the impending russet invasion.
We may still be in August, with suncream on hopeful standby, but you get the feeling that a shift is taking place. The starlings seem to be flocking together already for safety and warmth. Sunset creeps closer. The wheel turns, relentless. The kids crave their conkers.
Outside my window, those orange and brown leaves will spread like a contagion, spindrift of decay scattered on strengthening winds. Autumn creeps closer. The windows are closed.