On my neighborhood walks even though it’s the dog days of August, I see secret signs of autumn to come.
Goldenrods, their yellow flags announcing six weeks ’till frost remain unfurled even though I see their heads peeking out from their hiding spots.
The burning bushes green all summer long now showing signs of smoldering tips.
The leaves atop the trees dry and wait for a cool wind to transport them in flight to distant places where they decay as do all living things.
A child’s pink birthday balloon falling lower each day. It now barely moves, wet against the mailbox post.
by Sue Baugh Mattingly – August 2013