You can tell it's coming.
The skies grow gray, the sun hazy.
Yesterday's strong south wind is forgotten.
The autumn leaves hurry to the ground in the light breezes.
The air grows calm.
In the northwest, the sky gets bluer and darker.
Ragged clouds fill the skies of the serene Great Plains.
It eases in, spitting moisture as a vanguard.
When darkness falls, you can hear its arrival.
Outside, gusts of wind whip every limb of every tree and bush.
It's time for stew and hot tea and perhaps a fire.
You go to sleep underneath a blanket
And the wind tells you it's November.
In the morning, it's clear and bright...
and crisp... cold front.