That time of year

The leaves turn brown, amber and red, the nights are longer and colder. The world of living outside and sitting and avoiding wasps and flying beasts is a faint memory. There is a damp taste to the air, root vegetables return to the tables, soup becomes attractive and the logs are laid out and stockpiled for the coming cold. The grass stubbornly tries to grow but slowly gives up the fight and, one by one, the wild birds return to the feeders now that the harvest of insects and berries is giving no more nourishment. Winds pick up and fluffy clouds scurry across the sky, as if they had a very important appointment over in Norway or somewhere past the May Island. I look about for some thicker shirts and find coins, stale sweets and unfamiliar pens buried deep in winter jacket pockets. I wont need sandals or plimsolls either, not for a while now. In the distance the oil refinery lights are bright, the hot orange flare burns into the sky, some futile and temporary warmth but no match for the big and hostile weather systems, circulating and out on the razz, looking for trouble and finding it. Just when we're settling into this pattern, looking forwards and checking the horizon, I'm all easy-peasy and going with the seasonal flow...along comes the pooh-sticks envelope. Suddenly concentration, commitment and a steady hand are all required.