I know you. I see you pining away over your flip flops, toes now shunning anything but socks; suntan on permanent fade.
You summer babies beginning the long huddle on the couch just about now: go ahead and whine about the cold coming.
This is my season, the season of chilly mornings that clear my fog and forests heated with their own colours.
I’m headed to Algonquin to this place:
How fast can I fly there?*
I’m there to soak in the reds (foliage, bottles,) and see what’s cooking in the Voyageur Quest log cabin.
I might run into some trippers and just maybe, hitch a ride.