Sharps.

Buchholz, Untitled, 1957

Frost sharps the middle music of the seasons, and all things living on the earth turn home again.  The fields are cut, the granaries are full, the bins are loaded to the brim with fatness, and from the cider-press the rich brown oozings of the York Imperials run. The bee bores to the belly of the grape, the fly gets old and fat and blue, he buzzes loud, crawls slow, creeps heavily to death on sill and ceiling, the sun goes down in blood and pollen across the bronzed and mown fields of the old October.

Thomas Wolfe, from Of Time and the River: A Legend of Man's Hunger in His Youth