You can feel it turning now; the light comes in lower, the mornings have an edge, and the crickets sound like they’re running out of things to say.

Fall doesn’t hit the valley all at once; it leaks in through the edges: a yellow leaf here, a cold porch rail there.

I’m ready for it.

Give me the cool air, the foggy mornings, the ridge going gold. Bring it on.

What’s the first sign of fall you always notice, dear journal?