The ground is sprinkled with leaves in every colour of autumn; first birch, then oak, now aspen, and soon maple. The swallows have left for the south, so have the cranes. The rowan berries glow bright red in the evening sun, and we take turns in saying "it's going to be a cold winter". The apple trees bend under the weight of the fruit, and every minute you hear a dull thud as yet another apple hits the ground. The house constantly smells of apples; apple pie, apple crisps, apple sauce, apple everything. Apples and chanterelles (we've lost count of how many litres we've picked this year). 

September, I like you. A lot.