The Great Oak shook its head, sending a cascade of acorns to the ground. “No. This is our grand finale. This is the cider press, the pumpkin patch, the rustle of wind through cornfields. October is autumn’s heart—loud and beautiful. You must wait until we drop our curtain.”

Old Man Winter, leaning on his cane of ice, grumbled at the edge of the forest. “It’s time,” he barked at the trembling oak trees. “September is here. Bring out the frost.”

Winter huffed, but he waited.

Then came . The golden leaves turned brown and rattled like bones. The last geese flew south in ragged V’s. The sky turned the color of pewter, and the air smelled of wet earth and woodsmoke. The Great Oak stood nearly bare, its branches raised like skeletal fingers.

In the United States, autumn is officially defined by astronomers and calendar makers as the period from the September equinox to the December solstice. That typically means are the autumn months.

But the Great Oak, the eldest of the grove, rustled its green leaves patiently. “Not yet, Winter. September is our bridge. The children are going back to school, and the sun still holds its warmth in the afternoon, but the nights are getting sharp. We are preparing for you, but we are still autumn’s first act.”

Winter scowled but held his breath.