It's september and you've taken the dog for a walk. The wind bites your ears, but tenderly and you don't mind much. You let him off the leash and he bounds, swinging his tail, ears flopping, tongue hanging out, every hair reveling in the rush. Turning left, you start up the hill with the field to your right and the dog lost in the long grass.

It's september and some trees have lost all their leaves already. There's one, a large chestnut you used to climb with scabs on your knees and scrapes up your thighs, with one or two browning spots of foliage. But underneath! Bramble thicket huddled with a mess of weeds and other things, but brambles nonetheless. Prickles stabbing, you maneuver around and under, fingers wander just one more inch.

Juice drips from your fist and you lick most of it off, picking the seeds from between your teeth. You don't notice the smear that stays on your thumb.

The dog comes back, tongue swinging. You clip the leash on and lead him home, but still theres a smear on your thumb. It's september and the bushes are full of brambles, juice lingering long after the taste is gone.