All the months of fall—September, October, and November—gathered one last time before winter’s chill swept the land. They met at the edge of the old maple forest, where the leaves had already begun their slow, fiery transformation.
October burst from the woods, laughing. His cloak was patched with orange pumpkins and crimson vines, and his breath smelled of woodsmoke and cinnamon. He spun in a circle, sending a whirlwind of scarlet and amber leaves into the air. “I bring the peak!” he shouted. “The cider pressing, the hayrides, the night when the veil grows thin. I bring the spook and the spark, the jack-o’-lantern’s grin, and the final, glorious riot of color before the trees let go.” all the months in fall
September arrived first, smelling of fresh pencils and ripe apples. She carried a basket of goldenrod and the first cool breeze off the mountains. Her hair was the color of wheat, and her footsteps left behind a gentle crispness in the air. “I bring the beginning,” she said softly, touching the tips of the maples. “The slow goodbye to summer. The first day of school. The harvest moon rising like a copper coin.” His cloak was patched with orange pumpkins and
The three months stood together, watching the forest shed its gold. “The cider pressing, the hayrides, the night when
“They always blame me for the sadness,” November murmured.