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Jason Peters says we're entering the season of poetry:

There’s a certain slant of light now, and sharper teeth in the sometimes barking, sometimes snarling, always changing leaf-swirling wind that blows the barred clouds across the sky, a blue serene slightly different now, icier, sharpersharper and yet more pale. The cornfields, so lately verdant, stretch into pale expanses of stark stubble, hard beneath the chilly air–but warmed by the low-riding autumnal sun.

In this season of swelling gourds the high priests cense the air with wood fires and charcoal stoves. Whether in backyards or stadium parking lots, men and women gather ’round brats and burgers and pork chops and beer, and inside the stadiums it’s drums and fight songs and nubile cheerleaders and the crack of shoulder pads and helmets and the arc of a ball going end-over-end toward the uprights, and above it allabove the Communubacations major wearing #72 and the General Studies major taking the pitch on the optionthe lazy drone of a small plane trailing banners for Big Al’s Insurance and Sandersson’s Chevrolet.

Fall is here!

Famous poems on autumn here. And don't forget this goard season classic:

I don't know about you, but I can't wait to get my hands on some fucking gourds and arrange them in a horn-shaped basket on my dining room table. That shit is going to look so seasonal. I'm about to head up to the attic right now to find that wicker fucker, dust it off, and jam it with an insanely ornate assortment of shellacked vegetables. When my guests come over it's gonna be like, BLAMMO! Check out my shellacked decorative vegetables, assholes. Guess what season it is -- fucking fall. There's a nip in the air and my house is full of mutant fucking squash.

(Image from Flickr user Eyeline-Imagery)

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