That chill is coming.
It travels, laden in the late summer dawn, it prickles under our naked skin when we whisk open shower curtains, when our trust in the sweet summer air is still in our hearts.
This chill comes one day when we haven't been moving much, and we suddenly realize the tips of our noses are like ice, and our toes command friction on one another under wool socks.
We admire the way our clothes on the line flap with their seams pulling against the mid-October gusts from the North.
We admire our clothes but behind a closed window and the radiator is on and so is the stove, softening some rice for our poor man's supper.
We begin to build up a defense with the cold, we have to remember sweaters and coats and protective shoes and socks because we don't want our extremities to be caught in the cold,
like the laundry is caught, out there by its pins.