Whatever you call it matters less than that inkling of a first wisp of crispness in the air,
The bluer than blue sky against a yellow edged leaf on a green tree.
A picture perfect moment of flame red maple leaves scitter scattered on autumn green lawn, the
deep, grassy green we only see when the nights become cool and the sun soars low across the noon sky.
The minty scent of smooth skinned birch mixed with splintered, pungent oak, quartered and stacked near the back door.
The last straggling tomatoes, tastier than all the plenty before them and red veined chard growing- sturdy against the cool evenings.
The ominous orange orb of the harvest moon that warns of colder, greyer months to come.