Winter Mornings, Summer Afternoons

It is getting colder. I can tell by feeling Too Li’s ears. Like the elephant, her large ears dissipate excess heat. If there isn’t enough heat in the environment, her ears get cold. I can also tell by what I wear. Three days ago I dug out my winter beret, the warm, wooly cover that acts as the full head of hair which I ain’t got. No more t-shirts in the morning; no more sandals without socks. It’s up to the attic to get the sweaters and jackets, soon.
Still, the worst of Fall has yet to drop on us. We get Indian Summers, often. It is a welcome segue, a slow letting down, instead of a sudden drop into the freeze. This time is for getting ready.
I have a long list of to-do’s to prepare for winter. At the top of the list: enjoy the Fall. Makes sense and I try and I know that the true cricket fiddles well into the night.
On the ground, under the tree, a carpet of glowing apples lies waiting. A glass of juice, held in crisp skin, patiently waiting liberation by bite; my appetite or the tender milking of the ground, the roots and their allies. Still the leaves cling to sturdy branches, working and waving goodbye. Fading to yellow, then to brown. In January the last apples will hang on bare branches, without tinsel or ropes of light; out in the cold, suspended in time, long after sacrificed noble firs hug garbage cans in back alleys. Then, I will pick the first rose of the year, from tough bushes on the corner, in front of the Rose Man’s house. Fighting roses that never taste fertilizer, nor the gardeners clip; that just keep pushing delicate colors into the cold, gray air.