Autumn crouched behind three days of rain before standing upright to survey the town, planting her hands on her hips, and announcing to the winds, “Come on out boys, we’ve got work to do.” In one mischeivous night she hawked summer’s sweat off our backs for a chill up our spines, scolded our happy barefeet like a cranky schoolmarm, “Cover up or it’s detention,” and released into the air that funny gas which makes us breathe clouds. I’m not amused.
The man downstairs must not notice the trickery; I was told his vents would warm my still-cold kitchen tile. Until then I’ll console myself with the blue flame in the utility closet and the stale exhaust pouring from the walls. At all times will the turpentine be sealed.