There is something about the first few days of autumn weather that make every plain, every day thing in the world into something beautiful. The cool touch in the air complemented by the occasional warm rays of sunshine. There is a dusty, fresh scent in the air, the smell of the cold overtaking the trees of summer. It is new and fresh, like springtime, but tragic and deep because of the impending winter-death. The sky is clear and a brave, grey-blue. The cool breeze carelessly tosses your hair and whispers windy melodies in the ears of its audience. Leaves occasionally free themselves from hardened trees, only to be tumbled along by the mischievous winds to God knows where.
Summer is a season with a full life. Its birth is beautiful and its death, even more so.
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