One Day in August

There is always a day in August
when I feel the fall 
not in full force, just a knock at summer’s door
with its crisper air,
its caramel light,
and the first few golden aspen leaves.

These are just signs, inklings of what’s to come,
a single small puffy cloud on a monsoon morning,
telling you what you don’t want to hear.

The grosbeak knows, too, and sings to me, 
sitting high in the aspen, swaying to the breezy ballad of dusk.
Does she know I am sad?
Does she know my chick has gone?
Does she know the cold is coming?
Or does she just share the song she croons each evening
to herald the changing light?

Because one day can be a big day
A life-changing, remember-the-date day.
But even it will surrender to the sinking sun.