I stepped to the sidewalk at the library and an elusive fragrance met me there.
Forgotten and remembered then – the fragrance of crisp, fallen leaves.
There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir;
We must rise and follow her,
When from every hill of flame
She calls and calls each vagabond by name.
These days, it takes much longer for the morning dew and haze to lift from the valleys. This farm is across the road and we gladly wait our long turn at the traffic light to drink in the view.