The season of pears was upon them soon, at that point in August when nothing tangible suggests the demise of summer, except our apprehension.
For years I've had a poem hung on my office wall, but I moved offices recently and it's still in a box. I'll have to dig it out and post the sad, poignant words about the end of summer from the perspective of grass. Right now I can't even remember the poet. Unlike Erik Henne, who booed the onset of Spring here in the NW because it cuts his ski season short, I'm egging it on so we can move on to summer.