It’s the angle of the sun I always notice first. When I was a child, it was the maples and the fire that would color their tips in the weeks following Labor Day. Summer still warmed the afternoons, but the cool of the evening haunted the morning air. We lingered on threshold of change walking to the first day of school, dreaming of all things apple & pumpkin. It was a time to file away the memories of lazy, explorative days and return to work.
Today, it’s pulling out the nearly complete manuscript I shelved last May and giving a voice to the story waiting patiently to be told.