Fall comes for real. The world gets a little chillier, dark a little earlier, a funny, buzzy feeling. “Mercurial,” Petra calls it. “Serotinal,” I offer. “Just barely.” We actually needed sweaters this morning. “Isochronous.” “Seasonal?” I check. “Or occurring at the same time. Either might show up.” “Variegated,” I reply. She high-fives me. “Good one.” Even though it’s an easy word unlikely to show up on the SATs, what fall in Bourne usually is is anticlimactic. The color of the leaves changes but nothing else does.
