Scene in the City. The autumnal equinox

The autumnal equinox in the northern hemisphere, that fall tipping point into winter when the length of the night already equals the fading light of the day, usually slides by unnoticed by most. This year it passed by even more unnoticed at the unreasonably early hour of 2:13 in the morning, unheralded even in the city that supposedly never sleeps. Except, perhaps, by the Four Seasons. Or rather the Two-out-of-Four Seasons, since their other usually steadfast playmates seem to have wandered off somewhere, someplace else. The pair, frozen in pristine white marble as if more embarrassed to find themselves pressed into service, like a pair of doormen on the portico of a beautiful but empty mansion, than naked on the sidewalks of New York, are outrageously out of their element. The taste of modern billionaires, I suppose, to oddly perch the Seasons at their door. Oh well. For a brief moment, at the autumnal equinox, they come to life as if acting out an ancient destiny in an E. M. Forster tale. Summer, say hello to Fall. Fall, say adieu to Summer.

Summer, say hello to Fall.

Fall, say adieu to Summer.