Subtly, August beings the transformation. This is her whole task, this ushering of summer past its midpoint toward the days of fall.
At the edges of the fields and along the roadsides, she scatters the late summer flowers. She deepens the green of the trees and dusts them, ever so lightly, with a thin russet glow. She cools the nights, and bathes the morning with fogs. She ripens the crops in the fields.
A new scent fills her air and, tasting it, the earth’s creatures stir, as if waking from a long dream, as if they are sensing some familiar, ancient turning.