Little shivers prick my skin as darkness grows on stretching shadows.

Rushing home from work to wrap the dogs in their funny bright vests and getting out to run is now a time game. Soon my headlights will lead me and I will no longer glance at the sky to see how far the light sinks. Shadows drip like wax across lawns and fences, parking lots and curbs. They are longer everyday.

Warmth is disappearing. Rain will freeze and fill with snow angels.

Animals have a quicker sense of mild weather's passing. For several weeks I have caught two birds in cupped hands as they flapped against windows, then dropped like exhausted little tufts onto the tile floor. Once their tiny bird's feet -- brittle and thin -- gripped my knuckle, they meant to cling there. Mice. They tend to scurry out and freeze half way across the basement floor. One mouse and I played tag as I urged him toward the door and he would first run away, then come toward me.

Soon I expect to see a gnome waddle in as warm-blooded woodland creatures confiscate his hiding place for their own. Gnarled, dirty, and old, he will ask, why must I be this way?

Who will guard his treasures? Who will cast his spells? Who will walk the Earth with him, a small, plodding, and determined soul that often forgets his purpose?