Sing a song of chainsaws with a chorus full of frogs. Hear the croaking peepers and the felling of the logs. Listen to the castanets of dry leaves as they fall. October's come, the signs are clear. Dum-de-dumpty all. (My "poetry" will only go so far.)
Walking out in the morning, the yipping of the beastie boys was replaced with the whine of chainsaws and the drone of a splitter over on a hill to the south. Grape growers are harvesting, and there was the thump of big bins laden with fruit being dropped by forklifts. Someone (probably a frustrated hunter) was trying to improve his aim at target practice with a .22 nearby. Certainly not so many as when I had the pool, there is still a colony of tiny frogs that has moved into the potted plants on the deck and they tune up big time day and night. Acorns are dropping and banging on truck and roofs. Even without a calendar, I'd know it was October.