September saunters in
and summer inches gradually farther
from the atmosphere of the small dot
after all, on the map it's only a dot.
Familiar voices softly murmur.
It is only a facade.
Peope seem friendly but underneath,
is a sinking in anticipation,
a kind of surrender.

No more warm nights
in hayfields whost hills
seem like a dark, rolling ocean.
Midninght silence is like an embrace
heavy and warm.
But summer nights are killed,
fall is over soon enough
and winter creeps inside.

Summer is dead, only the dark figure
winter remains.
It breathes down our necks, looming
ominously.
Only winter, stifling, pressing winter.
The hushed voices call out for spring.