Autumnus

‘Tis the day after the equinox.  The solstice has long since passed and the seasons continue their inexorable 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.  The sun lazily creeps lower to the horizon lengthening the shadows.

There is a flurry of activity.  Migratory groups are departing, so evident by their formations, like a compass needle invisibly tied to their southerly destinations. 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.  Murmurations take flight on a more regular basis. The mysteriously choregraphed daily symphonies of hundreds of participants, eagerly finding what they can, within a cloud of activity. Casting smoke-like shadows against the dusk stained skies. 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.  Colours are muting, flowers are retreating. 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 air is clearing itself of the dusty humidity of the past months. Those fortunate to reside in the right dwellings, begin to use their fireplaces again. As the nighttime temperatures begin to drop, hinting at what's to come, trickles of smoke rise up. White and blue gossamer strands can be seen when the winds lull, imparting the sickly sweet smell, that always reminds one of the coldest winter nights.

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.  Nighttime takes on a more peaceful presence. Fewer now are the nocturnal insects producing their nighttime chorus. The Moon seems brighter, forcing it's light through the clouds. Like a searchlight through the smoke of a thousand fires.

So begins the best season of the year; Autumn.