It's not something I can point to, it's not something I can name. It's something in the cold clarity of the air, something in the brittle sparkling of the morning dew, something in way the low pale sunlight catches on stones and sills, and flashes on the river.
It's the memory of new terms, of hard black shoes and new lessons to learn, a return to a routine that marks the passage of time, crosses off days on the calendar, ushers in the nights when shop-fronts glow orange in the cold darkness and televisions light up people's windows like candles and everybody else is somewhere safe and warm.
It's a lump in the back of my throat, a swallow that can't bring back summer. It's another year over.