It sounds like fall in California. 

The Santa Ana winds are blowing, 

and the equinox is here.

Everyone is dry and edgy.

Shoes melt on concrete in the blistering heat,  

but the light is a softer gold. 

The air smells like the color brown

of dead grass, eucalyptus, 

and a little like the smoke

of fire season. 

But the crows and the ravens are cawing.

And their cries sound different than in summer, echoing portent. 

Of what?

Of darkness?

Of cold? 

Of the return to hibernation and dying off?