The air was crisp and chilly and smelled faintly of hickory. With a genteel whisper it somersaulted across the lawn, tossing flurries of golden orange leaves in every direction.

I separated the blinds slightly with my fingertips and peered through the front window.

Some days the city was so large it swallowed the universe. On those days, seasons didn’t matter and everything was gray.

But there were other days, like today, when the edge of the oasis was a vineyard’s length away, and beyond that, nothing but sand. The city was a single grain in middle of the deep, deep desert.

The autumn wind moaned as it scooped up the dunes, dusty moving mountains crawling up the street, nearer and nearer. And the leaves in the yard exploded against the windowpane with sudden severity. And then, at last, the pelts of burning sand assaulted, beneath the door, through the window cracks, in the ventilation, scouring the house for the last remnants of a pitiful harvest.

I buried my face in my shawl and prayed for winter.