Autumnus

‘Tis the day after the equinox.  The solstice has long since passed and the seasons continue their march.  The harvest is complete, the festivities echoing on the wind.  The airs are lighter, cooler.  Dawn in lengthening and the evenings are shortening, ushering in the expectant changes.  

There is a flurry of activity.  Migratory groups are departing, taking on the long sojourn south, hoping their reserves will last, enabling them to hide out from the worst of the upcoming seasonal conditions.  Thrushes, tits, and other foragers are risking exposure to gather what they can to survive the coming months.  Tasks are urgent, mandatory, and essential for survival.  Turf wars erupt with flashes of red from the robin’s breast.  Whose song adds a melancholic note to the dawn chorus.  

The frenzy of fauna is offset by the slowing of the flora.  The wind’s caress is noisier and rougher as leaves turn golden and begin to dry.  The first steps towards the seasonal denuding and slumber during the winter months.  

The wind, so used to being a gentle warming breeze, now takes on a more hurried abrasive tone.  The air has a dampness to it, signaling the arrival of rains.  Storms last longer, drive harder, than the flurries of the summer months.  Skies seem heavier, with increasingly overcast days.  There is a dichotomy between the oppressive formless grey of the clouds, and the feeling of relaxation the earth is about to undertake.  

So begins the best season of the year; Autumn.