Something, besides the calendar, marks the inexplicable shift from the hot asphalt days of summer to that first telltale brisk breeze of fall. And when it arrives, there's an anticipation in the air, and the air smells fresh- like deciduous detritus beneath your shoes, and rain, and bonfire smoke and the cinnamon brooms gathered by the gross in supermarket bins. It feels like remembering to bring a blanket with you in the car, and tugging up your socks when bare feet hit the cold tile in the morning. It's warm-toned and it's cool-toned all at once. It tastes like carnival fare and it sounds like this:
photos by Lindsay Thomaston
sunrise
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bonfire friends
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sadness
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purple skies
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