If there’s one thing good about New England,

it’s autumn — said everyone ever.

But wasn’t it to be expected?

We cut our teeth on Robert Frost,

his apples and his trees,

his oaths to crossroads and his leaf edged trails,

his quiet aching,

and here,

the sun, in its graceful plummet,

slants some light in our direction,

rallies her strength and sighs into the trees,

all this hill now is burnished gold

even the horizon is blushing at us,

a gradient of evening rose,

everything is happy to be on fire today.

We can’t stop instagramming this shit.