Summer abounds in these parts, a constant vigil of heat and humidity persistent against the flesh of my being, a reminder that, although all things end, all things do not end when we wish them to.

So I ask: When comes autumn?

Texas fails the color test of seasonal change, for Texas proffers such transformations with rapidity.  Perchance one day we feel hot, then the next we feel cool—almost cold.  This is the way of things here, dramatic and unyielding to expectations.

Still I wonder: When comes autumn?

Soon leaves will fall from trees like so much carnage born of wars unwanted.  Wisps of ligneous carrion will brush the streets with that sound we long for, that clarion of change.

Tell me: When comes autumn?