In a faraway realm the skies were ruled not by seasons, but by dragons.
Sunlong, the Summer Dragon, shimmered with green and golden scales, and trailed heatwaves in her wake. She was the keeper of lemonade breezes, firefly festivals, and the sacred rite of barefoot afternoons. Her wings beat with the rhythm of cicadas, and her laughter rippled across lakes like sunlit ripples.
Turnleaf, the Pumpkin Spice Dragon, was her autumnal counterpart. Cloaked in cinnamon mist and crowned with curling vines, he brought crisp mornings, cozy sweaters, and the scent of roasted enchantments. His arrival signaled the turning of leaves and the great migration of mugs from cupboard to hand.
Each year, as August waned, Turnleaf would peek over the horizon, eager to sprinkle a little spice into the air. But Sunlong was never ready so soon.
“Hold your fall, Turnleaf,” she teased one morning, lounging on a hammock spun from sunbeams. “The blueberries are still ripening, and the sandcastles haven’t finished their reign.”
Turnleaf chuckled, his breath curling like steam from a cauldron. “I only brought a hint of cinnamon. A whisper, really.”
“A whisper becomes a whirlwind with you,” Sunlong said, flicking a sunbeam at his snout. “Let the peaches finish their song.”
So they struck a deal, as they always did.
Turnleaf would wait until the final firefly farewell, until the last popsicle stick had been planted in the soil as a wish. In return, Sunlong promised to leave behind a few warm afternoons for Turnleaf to tuck into his harvest quilt.
And so, the skies of the realm remained in balance. Summer lingered with laughter, and autumn waited with patience. The dragons, though rivals, were bound by respect—and a shared love of seasonal splendor.
To this day, if you feel a sudden breeze that smells like sunscreen and cinnamon, you’ll know Sunlong and Turnleaf are playfully tugging at the calendar again.