When the Sunflowers Fall

Cool air. The sun hangs lower in the sky.

Cloudy mornings with a perfectly brewed cup of coffee.

A light breeze ushers in potential for an afternoon thunderstorm.

A Sunday morning adventure to the farmers’ market: vegetables, fruit, plants, crafts. The smell of roasting green chile lingers over town. Young teenagers cart their rented instruments to the market, case open, hoping to make a few dollars.

Dawn-time breezes bring the scent of cereal from the factory, miles away. Balloons, by the dozen, drift lazily in the sky, silent and eerie. Until they announce their presence with a blast of flame that draws eyes, cameras.

Cottonwoods, hugging the river, turn gold, snaking through the valley like a shimmering scar.

Rain pounding, thunder crashing, people flocking to play in the rain.

But it's when the sunflowers fall. That's when I know autumn is almost here.