By Robin Lantrip
It started with a brisk chill in the morning air. The meadow began dressing in longer birch and fir shadows. The evening scent held a wisp of tamarack smoke from hillside chimneys. Tree sap began to flow slower, and life took on a new pace. I felt the annual jolt of sadness as autumn announced the end of summer joy and free spirits. For a brief while, I was gripped by regrets — wishes that I had somehow honored it more, enjoyed more of its adventures, basked in more of its warm sun, threw more cares to the long-day breezes.
I fought against the bonds and, then, the trees began their redress into vibrant colors. The garden offered up its harvest bounty. Windows closed against the chill and held in fragrances of apple cinnamon cake and fennel-laced stew. The summer toys were stored. The lake remembered exactly how to transform the narrowed angles of sunlight into diamonds and exclaim, “Look how beautiful I am!”
I love autumn. It is quiet and peaceful. It is a time of reflection. It is the season to give thanks and be grateful. The early gusts of north wind arrive and are less about mischief than mission. The leaves will have to go and the first sting of sideways ice crystals will have to be felt against the skin, so that we know that autumn has its time, but will not last.
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