Author: Cesare Riverso

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The question hits me as I step outside, coffee mug in hand, expecting the familiar embrace of summer warmth. Instead, there’s something different in the air — a crispness that wasn’t there yesterday, or maybe it was, and I wasn’t just paying attention.

Test some description here, test 1 2 3

The leaves haven’t turned yet, not really. They’re still green, still clinging to their branches with the stubborn optimism of late summer. But there’s a whisper of yellow creeping into the edges of the maple outside my window, so faint that I might be imagining it. The morning shadoes stretch longer now, reaching across the sidewalk with cool fingers that seem to promise shorter days ahead.

How did this happen so quietly? Just last week I was complaining about the heat, counting down the days until I could wear sweaters again without melting. Time has this sneaky way of accelerating when you’re not looking, like a child tiptoeing past your bedroom door, trying not to wake you from the dream of endless summer.

The air smells different too — less like cut grass and chloring, more like something ending something beginning. There’s the faintest hint of wood smoke drifting from somewhere, probably someone getting their fireplace ready, optimistic about the coming coolness. A part of me wants to resist it, to hold onto the long evenings and bare feet and the luxury of leaving windows open all night.

But another part of me — the part that’s already mentally sorting through scarves and planning apple orchard visits — feels that familiar flutter of anticipation. Fall has always been a season of possibility, of new beginnings disguised as endings. School years starting, fresh notebooks, the satisfying crunch of leaves that haven’t fallen yet but soon will.

The question hits me as I step outside, coffee mug in hand, expecting the familiar embrace of summer warmth. Instead, there’s something different in the air — a crispness that wasn’t there yesterday, or maybe it was, and I wasn’t just paying attention.

Test some description here, test 1 2 3

The leaves haven’t turned yet, not really. They’re still green, still clinging to their branches with the stubborn optimism of late summer. But there’s a whisper of yellow creeping into the edges of the maple outside my window, so faint that I might be imagining it. The morning shadoes stretch longer now, reaching across the sidewalk with cool fingers that seem to promise shorter days ahead.

How did this happen so quietly? Just last week I was complaining about the heat, counting down the days until I could wear sweaters again without melting. Time has this sneaky way of accelerating when you’re not looking, like a child tiptoeing past your bedroom door, trying not to wake you from the dream of endless summer.

The air smells different too — less like cut grass and chloring, more like something ending something beginning. There’s the faintest hint of wood smoke drifting from somewhere, probably someone getting their fireplace ready, optimistic about the coming coolness. A part of me wants to resist it, to hold onto the long evenings and bare feet and the luxury of leaving windows open all night.

But another part of me — the part that’s already mentally sorting through scarves and planning apple orchard visits — feels that familiar flutter of anticipation. Fall has always been a season of possibility, of new beginnings disguised as endings. School years starting, fresh notebooks, the satisfying crunch of leaves that haven’t fallen yet but soon will.