Everyone has a favorite season. We wait impatiently for it all year. The calendar tries to trick us. It designates a day and calls it the beginning of the season. But I'm no spring chicken. You can't fool me anymore. I know when my favorite season begins.
It starts when the leaves give that last burst of color before they wilt away. It starts when the skies are a crisp, deep blue. When the sun is shinning, but the chill in the air reminds you that it shouldn't be taken for granted. When shadows are long, the grass is brown, and the waters go still. That's when my favorite season begins.
Last Sunday was the first day that I could honestly say, "Now this is autumn."
"Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns." -George Eliot
Exactly George Eliot, exactly.
It starts when the leaves give that last burst of color before they wilt away. It starts when the skies are a crisp, deep blue. When the sun is shinning, but the chill in the air reminds you that it shouldn't be taken for granted. When shadows are long, the grass is brown, and the waters go still. That's when my favorite season begins.
Last Sunday was the first day that I could honestly say, "Now this is autumn."
"Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns." -George Eliot
Exactly George Eliot, exactly.
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