September's music is a restlessness
whispering through the leaves,
an intimation of autumn
in the first glimpse of yellow
among the tired green foliage of summer
worn out by the poplars.

The winds of change reaching us
tell of honeycrisp apples and cider
from somewhere up in the mountains,
sourwood honey in golden jars
gleaned from wild thyme and heather.
The sweet smell of cut grass
as you walk past the barn
at twilight.

Early starlight.
A full harvest moon
hanging over a field of ripened corn.
Haybales half rolled across the hay fields.
Chrysanthemums bursting from a window box.

The music of September is the music
in the wind a sailboat rides on a fetch
from a long tack out past the outer banks
for the last time this season.
A beach littered with cast off shells
left to the mournful gulls.
The empty windows of the haunted summer houses.

The music of September fades
like a harmonica and an old guitar fading away
around a campfire half way into the foothills
after the last of the summer sunsets,
when the stars of Pegasus
take wing with the swans.