The middle of August part II

I wrote this little poem walking home to Morgan the other night:

Even today, 

a few red leaves on the green grass;

in the fruits of summer,

the seeds of fall.

The middle of August

Last night, when I left work at 8, the sun had already dropped below the mountain behind me; golden light touched only the tops of the mountains across the knoll. Summer is almost over... I'm not ready for it to end. I'm not ready.