Caw! CAWW- CAWW! caw-CawW! aw-aw-aw-caw!
The crows have arrived. Every rooster crow is punctuated by a CAW. Every squeak of the gate is preceded by a caw-caw-caw. Every bark is interrupted by Caw-caw. Every step is accompanied the cacophony of caws.
Fall is here. The crow tells me.
No, the temperatures haven't dropped, not much anyway. Yes, the humidity is still oppressive. But early in the morning I feel what the crows tell me.
The crow says it is Fall - the time of collecting and preparing. Yet, they don't come because it's Fall per se, they come for a feast - a nutilicious feast. The pecans are full, yet still green and the crows show up in hordes to eat - to prepare for the winter.
Because the Summer is dead.