Thirty days hath September...
So do April, June, and November, but there's something about this one that has—or hath—more permanence, less need for another day. Maybe because it comes first in the old mnemonic. Maybe because it's been so long enshrined in 9/30/55, the movie and the event. That was the day the actor James Dean died in a car crash in California. It cut short a life and career in a kind of end-of-an-era way. 9/30 has always had a built-in finality for me.
So, I'll let September go because it's aged to where it ought to be. The leaves are ready for the next artist. Ripeness is all. (Who said that? Edgar, in King Lear: Men must endure / Their going hence, even as their coming hither: / Ripeness is all.)
The trees are tossing like restless horses after a humid day with the promise but barely any fact of rain. Tomorrow could be another September day, but it isn't. Today is.
As the journalists say at the end of a story: