Pulse of Autumn

A new tang of autumn leaves and goldenrod in the air bring the bittersweet nostalgia of summer’s end in my new short story, “Pulse of Autumn.”

I’m dedicating this story to my husband Harry because he made its birth possible. We’ve taken the same morning walk for nearly two years, but it wasn’t until Harry read a few of Hal Borland’s nature editorials aloud to me that I began to focus on more than thoughts of the day ahead. Now, each morning I see the greys of dawn brighten into the lush green grass of the carefully manicured corner lot. I hear squirrels chatter angrily as we pass the nodding roses that mark our half-way point. I notice the acorns that crunch under our sneakers as we pass beneath the tall oak whose colors are just beginning to turn.

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