Method of Mancy

My backyard is yellow. The apricot tree has shed all its golden leaves and left them scattered across the grass. They quiver in the breeze and get kicked up and spun around when the gusts slam through. It’s warm today. The sky is almost entirely grey with cloud cover, protecting my eyes from the unforgiving glare of the autumn sun.

I stare down the barrel of another goddamn November, but I can’t quite believe it’s here. The city is just like me–echoing that denial. There’s no sign in these downtown streets that it’s already been November for five days, no indication it might even be on its way. My metropolis wraps itself instead in the idea of late September, of the very first stirrings of autumn. I take deep breaths of the unseasonably warm air and close my eyes so I can pretend, too. The city takes my hand and lets me lean back into an earlier, more forgiving time; neither of us are ready for another November.