The field in September had two colors
yellow where summer held on,
brown where it had quit.
That seemed true to me
in more ways than one.
School had started.
The mornings had a sharper feel.
Crickets kept on going
as if nothing had changed,
which was almost insulting.
Everybody talked of football,
tests, girls, weather, plans,
all the ordinary machinery
used to drag a year along.
I walked home slow that month.
I do not know why.
Perhaps I liked the season best
when it could not decide.
Perhaps I was the same.