Today you would not write lines on October like the musings from your teenage brain. You said the rosy sky was afire and the smoky air was sad. You smelled leaf rot (deep in your soul). You marveled at pearly dew sparkling in morning sunlight because that’s what dew does, and that’s what a boy writes the day he knows October. He’s learning to write October.
It’s time to worry when you see brown. When you hear “the terminal sound of apples dropping on the dry ground.” You’re going south the day you see geese flee, sunlight fail, green grind down. You’ve got bigger problems than gray wind and dry rosehips.
You’ve pulled out of your dive the day brown becomes cinnamon, when October nods, slips into red, and Autumn creeps. You’ve turned the corner the moment you see Summer pause on sunlit hill, weep, and move on.