The last few days have been warm enough for open windows and bare feet. The yard looks like winter, but the sky looks like summer.
Warm wind rattles through bare branches and ripples over a raveled carpet of leaves. Migrating birds gather in restless flocks, and I wonder if they regret flying south too soon.
Or maybe the birds know best. After all, the calendar insists that December is here, even if the sky doesn’t agree.