Colors Always Change

Thursday early evening.

Mid-September usually isn't in the 70s here, but the sun is out and it's not bad unless the wind blows. Overnight the temperature has dropped to the 50s. I prefer summer, although the beauty of fall generates warmth of its own. I think of it as a time of orange, yellow and red; cinnamon, brown sugar, apples and allspice; hot cereal, steaming soup, corn bread, muffins and tea; brittle brown corn fields and grass after killing frost; glorious gold warmth and boldness becomes dark evergreens, gray days here and there, and eventually glassy silver and white of winter.

Bulbs snuggled in the ground will bear winter and spite it in the spring. Gourds, squash and tomatoes come from the harvest. Broccoli, spinach, peas and greens get a second chance. Mason and Ball jars are filled with preserved summer. The air is fresh and clean. The beach is cold and the surf is finally warm. Mountain hikes follow trails buried in colorful leaves, sometimes wet and slippery, other times dry and crunchy.

The simple freedom of shorts, sandals and sunshine cannot be overcome by bulky sweatshirts, closed-in shoes, thick socks, and perpetually cold hands stuffed in warm pockets. Without its beauty, autumn would be only a temporary end that must be endured.

Sun arrives later, leaves sooner, and gives up without attaining the glorious zenith it reached in June. It is as though it wants us to hibernate like a lot of nature does. How tempting!

Photo of the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon from city data

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