There is a bridge where each year, Summer meets Fall. She arrives, gown a thick green meadow dotted with wildflowers, roses in full bloom around her waist, hair the color of sunshine, wearing bumblebees and lady bugs like jewels around her neck and on her fingers and she meets him.
He is likewise adorned, suit a tailored affair the color of bark with lapels woven from maple leaves that climb high up into a collar brushing against wild hair the color of fire. They have met, here, in this place since the dawn of time, a tacit agreement to pass their charge from one to another. He places golden fingers against hers, both hands gripping the railing of the bridge and whispers something inaudible in her ear. Tears glisten in both their eyes acknowledging the change that is to come, the slow sleep that even now creeps into the trees and beckons the smallest of animals to prepare themselves for leaner times. Dusk arrives a bit later each day, and the sparkle of dew remains a bit longer each morning. It is the way.
They turn, fingers still interwoven, and a smile passes between them, the promise that they will see each other again. The lady turns to leave, to sleep, to rest, and prepare for the next year when she will be needed again. She knows, it is his turn, and there is work to do.