The end of summer

This has been an interesting summer.
Six months, give or take;
now winter has stolen in, on her chilled, pale feet,
like a feral child with a stolen cloak
of clouds, splashing wet footprints on the river.
Another month, or maybe two, and the rains will come -
watch winter turn her face to the pregnant sky,
and go down on the earth until
everything is wet and slick as she,
until every green thing reaches, engorged, for the air,
and tastes of fresh, cold water.