Summer's Demise

This evening I strolled through the wet, grey streets of the quaint riverside town I inhabit.
The large digital display atop the old bank building read 68 degrees and I felt the edges of my lips curl upward. Autumn approaches. I can hear it's melody in the distance. You see, dear Sinners, Autumn provides creative transfusion.
I can smell the leaves dying already, and I am readying my veins for new stock.