Perched safely on high ground at the edge of the lake, the dock patiently awaits the onslaught of snow and ice, while the boat shivers in silence in the confines of the barn. Gold and red and orange have turned to brown and float quietly to earth. The wind gusting across the usually calm water beckons the arrival of the arctic express that will soon be storming across the plains.
"It's time to go" he said. It was stated simply, in the deep voice of authority. The one that commands respect and brokers no argument. The one I envision co-workers and subordinates loved to hate.
He had just returned from eight days spent in a warmer, sunnier clime, seduced by a serotonin high. There would be no discussion. Summer was spent and we were heading south. We would soon join the geese that gather in our little cove, assuming our position in the long line of snow birds taking flight for the annual migration.
I wanted to drag my feet. Hold on until the last leaf fell. But I knew he was right.
Summer is spent.
Autumn has wrapped itself in a blanket of dried and decaying leaves. Winter is knocking on the door. The arctic express has left the station.
It's time to go home.