Autumn took one look at me, stuck knee-deep in the writer’s block bog, and pursed her lips. Then she decided to forego the usual Victorian niceties and announce her own arrival.
All I have to add is: Judy Garland movies. A nappy brown sheepskin draped across the couch. Parsnips stewed, mashed, or roasted. That evening air laced with the scent of wet crushed leaves, rising up from the street into my lungs as I race home after midnight — it’s so lovely I lean over the handlebars and sing.
I’m glad she’s here.