The crickets sing a slower, lower song in the cold air. It’s coming, they say. Fall will give way to winter’s doom. But Fall meanders slowly, green reluctant to give way to the bright colors of the end. One tree has put on its yellow gown; one other draped itself in red and orange. Acorns have pounded the roofs of cars, houses, pounded the wooden decks, but the green remains all around. It’s coming. But will it bring its flame red leaves, or simply sink into wintery brown?