Taste of Fall

September tastes like apple cider in New York City. I walked through Central Park in 5am darkness that pricked with the first bite of winter’s warning. Not as hard as what was said last night.

No one goes to the park this early. There’s me, a clan of serial joggers, a few cyclists and a couple of homeless people. I’m here because I have dogs. I have dogs because they get me out of the house. And it’s important for me to get out of the house, because I have habits.

I have habits for a couple of reasons.

There’s nothing like the solitude of the south part of the park this time of day. It becomes a few acres of yard shared between a certain set of locals. It’s ironic that I live in midtown Manhattan, because something about crowds stuns me. That’s why my mornings are critical. The quiet. Empty avenues and seemingly abandoned shop fronts mixed with the glow of 24-hour spots and restaurants getting ready to re-open.

I hate the cold. I thought about certain implications yesterday that made me shiver in a bad way. The last time I shook properly was two days before he left.

I’m strolling past The Pond and gazing at The Plaza on an empty path winding me back to Columbus Circle. Most people don’t live like this; wandering around in the dark of city parks, considering.

The first time I considered him, he asked what my middle name is and told me he doesn’t believe in God. He said he gets jealous and told me he loves me.

Everything becomes pumpkin this time of year. Pumpkin coffee, pie, soup and bread. I walk back into the west 50’s thinking about what a season brings.

The cold has already crept in.