Unearned Run.

I think our little interstitial fall is coming to an end—the fancies are saying mid-eighties or worse for the weekend—but too early yet to register complaint, to say anything other than how lovely these few days have been—and the prospect of seventies again by midweek next week makes it feel like we need only survive these weekend days, remember that the first weekend of college football is meant to smell like fall, look like fall, but require air conditioning all the same—

The window's open here next to me; the Braves, though ninth-inning losers tonight, are prolonging hope well beyond where they should; school's in and I'm not yet dead; I've had three consecutive evenings of the autumn dog on the porch, squinting into the breeze; I'm the happy wearer of bluejeans; there are enough green tomatoes yet on the vine to make the prospect of mid-eighties seem almost palatable—

The cicadas have mainly quit. We had those deep fall crickets going before six p.m. tonight. They're still going now. Maybe the cicadas will crank back up this weekend—we can be all but sure they will—but it damn sure seems like we're trying to change over even in spite of the warming forecast. Long sleeves. Truck with all the windows down. This is like when you were a kid and started celebrating your birthday weeks out in front of when it actually was.