As I sat out on the porch this morning, holding my coffee cup to my cheek for warmth, I was startled to hear fierce honking way down on the pond in the meadow.
“How can it be time for the Canada Geese already?”
But it is time. It is October and the season is changing quickly this year. Last week, Round Meadow was green, this morning it is yellow. Soon I will be able to look into the woods and see the meandering path along the creek, well-hidden during the summer growth.
Autumn has been a season of falling in love for me. I don’t overlook the irony of falling leaves, the smell of decay and the very soon frigid temperatures of late November. But is there not a sense of abandonment with the garish and lovely hues of reds and oranges and burnt sienna, the bluest of skies, the false promise of Indian Summer days?
My seducing powers lay in cranking up the old apple cider press, a bonfire, a hint of Captain Morgan’s special rum, Fall’s own spice permeating the fragrant air. It is not the hour for Spring time clarity, but rather the moment to reach out and grasp what may soon be covered by the winter’s snow.
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