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Last week saw the last of the summer’s heat. Tonight, the first cool drafts bring the smells of cooked dinners into the room. The faint sounds of dishes in sinks seep through the walls as children play ball games beneath streetlamps speckled with insects’ wings, and the final nuances of the summer sky take time to fade.

And two screams in shadows and shade – one of laughter, one of fear; a boy with a look of grown-up avarice chases another to the bright safety of a front door. The pursuer stops not far off the threshold – winking, pounding his fist on the gate, for he knows there’ll always be a tomorrow.

And tomorrow’s autumn by date, handfuls of leaves have fallen, yet the air is still summer’s apart from the fostering a colder tinge when the sun sets. Ball games will stop with the oncoming pace of winter’s darkness, smells of cooked dinners will be retained in safe, heated, houses; and by the gate, still pounding his fist, the runner’s pursuer will wait for that tomorrow which never fails to come.