Old Jack is dead.

Valiantly he lit the Gates of Summer's End.

Then came freeze.

Now, with thaw, what the squirrels have left sits in a puddle of its own melt: sunken, falling in.

Once he was firm, thunkable. Now, if you tried to pick him up—but please don't try—he'd fall to spongy, rotten pieces.

Soon I'll be bringing out the snow shovel. Its first use of the season will be to shovel up what's left of Jack and take him back to compost.

Yes, Summer's gone, but you know Jack.

He always comes back.

So farewell, Jack the Pumpkin King.

Hello, Jack Frost.