Autumn Equinox freewrite

The turning of the seasons, looking back over the shoulder, eyes cast on the remnants of summer, with one foot stepping towards winter, the other leaving spring. Equinox. But the nights are growing in sooner, no dog days, no halcyon days of Indian summer to carry us across the threshold of the year. A cold wind nipping at our heels, so uncharacteristic of September. The cold seeps into the bones, it creeps under the open corridors of loose shirts, and preternaturally dwells in the psyche. The cat wants in. He’s bracing himself against the cold, he wants in, he wants shelter from the storm. As do we all. And has Dylan finally cashed in the cow during the September of his years? We listen to his lyrics sell, sell, sell And now Scorsese has made a film of him. What happens when the idols become the icons? It’s Equinox, but where? Surely, not here, maybe at the equator where the nights and days are always equal. No cold nights to remind you of winter’s frailty. Meanwhile another hurricane pounds the Gulf, and the homeless living in tents, in sthe weltering heat, still have warm summer nights. No pestilence infested night to contend with. Yet, I bet they’d happily trade places with us, even with the cat.

9/23/2005 Writers’ Group