The way the crisp, cool air caresses my face while I am walking my rescue dog in the athletic field opposite my home.

The way the behemoth SUVs lining my bucolic and exceptionally narrow street gleam in the afternoon sunlight.

When my rescue dog is barking and the Pee Wee Football parents who frequent the athletic field opposite my home shout for her to shut up, opening my window to let in the crisp, cool air and also to yell “No, you shut up, she lives here and she’s a rescue, you heartless motherfuckers.”

Roasting pumpkin seeds while listening to the faint sound of a kid named Jackson or possibly Braxton or maybe Jaden crying and saying that he “doesn’t want to do this anymore, Daddy.”

Sitting on my porch in a cable-knit sweater while sipping mulled cider and engaging in spirited discussion about special topics in the neurosciences, such as concussions.

Admiring the foliage as I illegally dispose of household trash in the dumpster provided for the refuse of the Pee Wee Football games that occur opposite my home BECAUSE SWEET LORD GOD THAT IS THE RENT THE ATHLETIC FIELD PAYS ME FOR LIVING OPPOSITE IT.

Strolling down cobblestone sidewalks in the crisp, cool air with my rescue dog, en route to the quaint little coffee shop on Main Street, where I will treat myself to an artisanal soy approximation of a Pumpkin Spice Latté, steamed to 200 degrees.

Letting the warm cup toast my chilly fingers while kicking through fallen leaves en route to the athletic field opposite my home.

Removing the lid from my beverage and watching the steam dance in the crisp, cool air.

Allowing myself to be overtaken by nature’s gifts, so much so that my seasonal beverage makes contact with Jackson or possibly Braxton or maybe Jaden’s father’s arm, causing a second or possibly third-degree burn, maybe requiring amputation.

Apple Picking.