Just a date on the calendar, a decent frost after the hot days of Indian summer, the air crunching from the cold, and the leaves falling from the trees in the complete absence of wind.
The dog rushes merrily along the carpet of yellow-brown, already withered leaves, and I stand with my eyes raised to the sky and look at the stars that are about to disappear from the horizon.
And then we go to a warm house.
I put on the kettle, brew fresh tea with herbs, and listen to how the cat, comfortably sitting on the radiator, purrs something of its own.
Cozy, fluffy, joyful, mesmerizing in autumn, pacifying in October.
There is no longer the riot of September, it is still far from the dullness of November, all the most important is happening now.
This is the time when the frowning sky, filled with rain, covers the whole world, and the incoming cold wind raises fallen leaves into the air, and makes them whirl in a dance known only to him.
This is the time of the latest dahlias and chrysanthemums, looking at which the heart always aches with incomprehensible longing.
From a premonition of imminent separation.
From mysteries that we are never destined to unravel.
From the understanding that the circle has closed again and no one can change anything.
October surrounds us with secrets, riddles, hoaxes.
It plays with us, grins, does not look into our eyes, but it still loves and tries to justify itself by the last warm days, the still warming sun and the almost bitter smoke of burning foliage.
It seems to be writing a book about how much it can, and how little it does.
The cat's purring became quieter, and then it stopped altogether, the cat fell asleep.
The dog dozed off in an old chair.
Tea is drunk.
And it's time to get down to business.
And I still stand at the window and look at October, unable to tear myself away from it.
A magnificent sight in a magnificent autumn.
A small miracle in every big life.
Big life in a short segment of the calendar.
Do not miss.