Home.
In a few weeks the fat writing spider on the deck will disappear.
The paper seed pods of the golden rain tree will fall.
The fog will hold on to the grass for hours.
Suburban residential rules dictate that the wreath on the front door be changed to something orange or golden.
Pumpkins will sprout on each stoop beside pots of mums, manipulated to bloom too late, becoming ironically representative of the wrong season.
We will begin to batten down the barbecue, unpack the cover for the glider, insulate the garden spigots.
The fire pit and the earlier darkness.
The last cut of grass.
The sigh of summer fading.
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