As I type this, the temperature outside here in lovely Green Bay has reached a bracing forty-one degrees. The house is ticking and creaking, and the furnace is belching out that funky first-time-used-this-season smell. Football is firmly entrenched, fowl are flocking up for their impending migrations, and retailers are steeling themselves.
Bye, summer.
Oh, sure, we might hit 80 later this week. And sure, you've not been gone long enough to take the leaves off of the massive tree on #9 (you know the one - the one lovingly called Shaq for his proclivity for "blocking the shot"), but if you're still here you're a shadow of your former self.
You came late, and it feels like you're too leaving early. If only we could find a way to get winter to do the same.
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