The summer is most certainly dead. What remains of slow burning, heavy days is a hollow chill, with the promise of cold, wet and gray, absent of scent and sun, draped with the gaunt fabric of winter.
Socks now become a commodity once more, with revisited fleece, a measure of garbish companionship. Moisture escapes into the vacuum of autumn from sun-dried skin and the healthy glow of pigment mixes with the horizon and dissipates, chameleon-like.
How can air smell cold?