The end of summer isn’t loud. It slips away like a secret told just once, like something you might not notice until it’s gone. It’s in the way the mornings start to taste different, cooler, like someone stirred the air with a spoon dipped in ice water. The trees, too, seem to know something’s changed, but they don’t say it all at once. They just start to blush, red creeping up their leaves like they’re shy about it.
And there’s that moment, one evening when the sun hangs lower than it used to, where you feel it. The day seems to take a little longer to pack up, to stretch its arms and yawn before it finally settles into the night. Crickets fill the quiet that summer left behind, and even they seem to sing slower, like they’re a little tired, too.
The wind picks up, but it’s not the same wind that came through in June. This one has something to say—soft, low, almost like a whisper. It tugs at the edges of everything, asking the leaves to let go, asking the grass to bend a little, just a little, to what’s coming next.
You can feel it in the bones of the place. The way the sky starts to lean more towards grey, like it’s thinking about rain but hasn’t entirely made up its mind. The apples get heavier on the branches like they’ve been holding on all summer, and now, finally, they’re ready to fall. It’s not sudden, not really. It’s more like an old friend showing up unannounced with a smile that says they’ve been on their way for a while now.
And maybe that’s the best part, the quiet change from one to the other. Like summer was always meant to hand things over, just a little at a time, to the crispness of fall. It doesn’t ask for permission, and it doesn’t say goodbye. It just steps aside, slow and steady, and lets the next season take its place.
The CJBuzz 