The prairie breathes in one last great gulp of life when the soaking rains of October blow through, with torrential downpours that turn senderos back into streams, and grass long brown into patches of green to quickly throw up seeds in an attempt to beat the weather.

But the sun is still golden and waning, and the weather never quite as warm as it was, so the leaves begin to turn. Pear trees first, usually – decorative, invasive menaces that they are. But oh their rich burgundy leaves are a treat in October, and the drenching rains knock them loose, filling sidewalks and flower beds with almost purple signs of the season to sit next to gourds and pumpkins and brooms with orange bows.

The last of the wildflowers now throw one more bloom – a quick one, this time – and roadsides and easements and the edges of fields grow thick with tangled old stems and quickly brightening new ones. A last ditch effort for more seeds to sit dormant through the next fallow time.

And we humans look to the turning of the seasons, the great receding tide of light and heat that brings us to the long rest of winter after the quick inhale that is October rain.