Why does the heat feel different in September?
 How does it know
 that fall is fast approaching?
 The numbers on the dial are the same
 but the air feels softer on my skin.
 It doesn’t burn and oppress
 like the dog-days of summer do.
 Do the bees know, I wonder?
 The same ones buzz around
 the same clover.
 Can they feel the change in the air?
 The light is different too,
 the colour richer.
 Everything gets washed out
 in the summer’s sun.
 It’s quieter today.
 I no longer hear summer’s sounds, 
 kid’s laughter, lawn mowers, frogs and ducks on the lake.
 How did I not notice things changing?
 It’s amazing, what everything happens when
 you aren’t paying attention. 

(It’s not September, but I claim poetic license. It’s been a long time since I felt poetry. I suppose I should try to write every day and get into a groove, but it’s never worked that way for me (Strategies for Failing 101). I write poetry when the spirit moves. It hasn’t for a while.)