It's the season that's not a season. September's coolness feels neither like a silent, stinging slap nor a desperate drink of water. September's subtle elegance is pensive, like the furrowed brow of child studying the first fallen leaf or the tranquility in the eyes of a white-haired man turning his face towards the sun.
This in-between period, with its crisp autumnal mornings and bright, summery afternoons, is always forced into one season or the other. The Summer Clingers stuff September into pool bags and wide-brimmed hats, begging it to look a little more like June. The Fall Rushers shove September into jack-o-lanterns and ovens filled with the scent of pumpkin pastries, asking for it to take notes from October.
But September is just September.
I've typically found myself in the former camp - the one trying to steer September backwards into the summer. I'm sorry for that now. September is a bit like Northern California; mischievously mysterious, unapologetically unpredictable, imperfectly perfect.
Both seem to say, "Follow me. You'll never guess what will happen if you do."