Outside, the night is cold; the sky black, bejewelled. The smouldering tangerine sun set hours earlier, before dinnertime. During the day, the sun was warm but the air cool; bright leaves lay in piles, untouched in places, and crisped at the edges like toast.
Soon, burnt orange pumpkins will be plucked from the ground, carved, and filled with glinting lights. Colours will explode in the sky and sparklers will be held in gloved fists; names written excitedly in the air. Fires will blaze; marshmallows will be torched then devoured, their centres gooey.
Snow may fall, later. Endless crystals dropping to Earth, concealing its blemishes in pristine white. Children will marvel at it, use it to form men, slide down it; muddy its edges. Then, it will vanish, melt away like it never existed at all. Fires will roar inside darkened rooms; cocoa will be sipped.
The promise of Christmas will bloom, bringing with it golds and reds; lights, spices, trees, and gifts. Food will be consumed in abundance, drink will flow. Children will burn brightly inside, glow like the flickering candles reflected in their faces. Count days off on their fingers, or calendars. Letters will be answered by Santa, who will squeeze into homes, leave bundles of excitement beneath the tree and watery footprints, if you look closely enough.
The most wonderful time of the year.