A not-green leaf or two may appear without causing comment, the decline of the sun is a long slow slide, and even in summer the humidity breaks occasionally. But on the day when all three converge, it is with the feeling, almost the sound, of gears meshing and turning. If you had not felt it before, you would think only, That’s pleasant, for so it is: Crisp is better than sticky, side- and under-lighting is more dramatic than the steady downward beat, and red, orange, and yellow are pleasing especially when they pop out against a backdrop of chlorophyll (much as one teenager with blue hair amuses, whereas a roomful of them — as at a rock concert — alarms, or depresses). We have felt and heard the tick before, though, so we know where this is going.
Attn: Hasidim, piling out of your vans. Attn: Mexicans, sweeping the fields with the efficiency of locusts. Get your sweet corn, get it now. Already acres of it — especially those planted only to qualify for agri-tax breaks — are dry and spindly. Pick it, shuck it, roast it; best of all, gnaw it raw off the cob. Its time is running out.
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