The fall is skying

Some people say it happens on the vernal equinox. Others claim May Day is the day.

I know better.

Today, the day after Whitsuntide, is the day Fall takes to the sky, migrating south beyond the equator to roost in lands where it is hardly felt but for an occasional bleat at some belated bird.
You would never get Fall to admit as much, but it goes south to rest: to drink from artesian wells, swig brandy and sit swaddled in thick blankets in an ancient creaking rocking chair, and to sleep, thick cottony sleep with no dreams — until the herons, honking back at Fall on their own journey south, finally wake it and call it home to its real trods in the north, rested and strong.

North Wind has to carry Fall all the way South, so weak is it in these days about Whitsun, proud, fierce, fiery Fall.