Early Autumn.

In Seattle, Washington, the coming of September brings an unexpected new light.  Autumn has begun to air its soft arias, lingering restfully within veins.  A cool, crisp breeze is saying its hello to bare arms as coffee cups hit ceramic saucers.  Muscles are relaxing in the new and breathable air, making room for those deep sighs left unspoken during the long, drawn-out heat of summer. 

For those who would relish perpetual heated days, the awakening of Autumn is an accost; it motions to unwanted thoughts as to the ephemera of life, to the reality of change and briefness of time.  For others, the fall into Autumnal ease brings muted release.  A chance for the rise of pocketed desires. 

Through shop windows and tree branches, the sun prints its mottled patterns of shade onto outdoor tables.  Its light brings out traces of dust on window ledges, atop car bonnets and whiskey glasses left unused.  Wood furniture takes on a softer golden hue, beset with scratches previously invisible, and doors stationed slightly ajar beckon in a reviving rush of aaah.

Not yet acute, autumn gives room still for fuller sounds of guitars in chorus, guttural brushes of feet on pavement.  Pausing to listen is a reminder of how each season adjusts the timbre of all surrounding sounds.  Buses passing by outside have less of a roar to their engine and the echoes of voices are muted from street to street - autumn, cushions the air.  It is an interlude that buffers the in-betweens and ceilings-too-high for this time of year.  Storefronts and coffee shops are adjusting their soundtracks.  In Solstice, it’s Uncle Acid and The Deadbeats’ Yellow Moon.  On the third floor, it’s Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien.