The air is changing. A bite in mornings freshness, a crisp edge in days adjourn. Leaf and grass spin bright with gold, a harvest moon arcs, round and fat. I feel the seasons changing too. The tick tock of day eager for the cool, dark of night. I feel, the sweet hint of slumber, life turning inward, preparing for rest. I hear, the swish-swoosh of leaves dropping, spent toward earth, The chitter-chat of squirrel hoarding against hungry night. I smell, the robust scent of time reclaiming verdant youth with auburn arms and harvest breath. I see, man, spinning in discordant rhythm, beset by cell phone, ipod, blackberry, tivo, plagued by artificial light, alarm clock, calendar, thought. I wonder at all our busy, self important knowing, ...