I was born in bottom half of September, just as the calendar claims Autumn. The trees are still full of green leaves- a cool harvest breeze passes through them- waiting to desiccate, rustle, and set adrift. Autumn is my terroir- copper freckles and auburn hair. Brown saddle leather and Irish Tweed.
The R months beckon me in those last dog-days of August when humidity steals energy and weighs down breath. We are tanned but now cooled by the balm of crisp air. We are clean.
We gather to shuck oysters and cut the salty brine with brown whisky as kids eat fallen apples. Sparks weave into the dark sky above the fire and we sit on hay bales after long afternoons in the field. The women look more beautiful in their country clothes- tall boots, equestrian pants- sexier than any evening gown. The folk of our music is ambient to the breeze.
We are third quarter people- that is when every contest is won. Runners and thoroughbreds and scull boat rowers. Boxers and football teams. Holding your own until the space opens to prove your meddle and expend yourself to the victory.