It was the last days of warm sand.
Afternoon shadows lay long and slender.
The sun slipped away a little earlier and the
clouds appeared thinner from where I stood.
Season change is a transition of the soul,
a sacrifice without choice; the end of one,
the beginning of another.
A rightly authority turns the months over,
repositioning without trouble a different
aroma in the air, leaves not so green,
less traffic, fewer people and the sand a
little cooler.
Roger Singer 