A September Morning

By Peter Bowden

The air carried the first hint of coolness, a whisper that summer’s long breath was nearly spent. Dew clung to the grass, jeweled and trembling, while the last cicadas rasped half-heartedly from the trees. The world seemed to lean forward, not yet autumn, not still summer, but balanced in the delicate pause between seasons.

A man stood at the edge of his porch, coffee warm in his hand, watching the sky brighten. The sun was slower now, climbing the horizon as if reluctant to leave its bed. He thought of fields waiting for harvest, of school bells ringing across small towns, of the slow turning of time’s wheel. The air itself seemed thoughtful, rich with memory and promise.

Somewhere, a dog barked and children laughed, their voices sharp and clear in the crispness. Leaves, not yet ready to fall, shivered with the lightest touch of breeze. It was the kind of morning that reminded him life would not always be like this—that mornings came and went, each one a small gift, wrapped in gold light and the steady ticking of the clock.

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