This particular November morning, she stood at the back door with a mug of coffee, watching her breath fog the glass. The calendar said autumn. The thermometer said 23 degrees.
Lena thought about it. She thought about April, which sometimes arrived like a lamb and sometimes like a lion. She thought about September, which could be a second summer or a first winter. She thought about March, the great liar, offering a warm day just to snatch it back with ice. months for the seasons
“It does,” Lena said. “And the calendar says it’s still autumn. But the wind doesn’t care about December 21st. The wind knows.” This particular November morning, she stood at the
Maya tilted her head. “Then what do they listen to?” Lena thought about it
That night, Lena tucked Maya into bed. Outside, the first real snow began to fall, covering the dying grass, the bare branches, the last forgotten pumpkin.
“Feel that?” Lena asked.