Indian Summer

Indian Summer Gregory Firlotte Indian Summer lingers for a while with a cascade of warm sunlight caressing crimson, gold and russet leaves with deep honey-colored rays. The air is quiet like a whisper and the earth still smells of late, late Summer grass and a delicious heady scent permeates every sense. Corn shocks stand and pumpkins sit majestic in hay-strewn fields awaiting their autumnal purpose. Crows caw in the distance as if to say, "Look! Look at the splendor of it all before it flees in cold November winds!" Tender, sunny days slip into cool twilight quicker and quicker, and well-loved and well-worn quilts are pulled closer and tighter in an embrace that signals the bittersweet exchange of one season with another. It is a time to nap in a snuggled solitude and with a thousand blazing hues hovering overhead from leaves that must fatefully drift downward to earth to rustle in piles around the footfalls of anyone who has ever dreamed deep orange dreams. O, Indian Summer! Yes, Indian Summer! Please stay, we beg. Let the warmth of your gentle hand touch us just a little longer as we walk in meadows and along paths, still intoxicated with golden, sunlit yesterdays. copyright © 2017 Gregory Firlotte