Your Fall

Picture by H. Daughton

   I have lived in the midst and mists of a New England fall.  The colors are bright and crisp; the mountains transform into mounds of scarlet and gold.  I did not like it.    

   The trees seemed at war against each other, each trying to outshine the other, to draw the most camera lenses.  The leaves did not smell right, and crumbled beneath my steps.  The wind was not playful; it was a working wind, pulling the plodding winter along behind it, hurrying the the slow white beast.  

   The oaks I grew up under will forever define my Fall.  My Fall should be subtle and soft.  A gentle transition between fireworks and snowflakes.  It can have orange, red and yellow, but they should not be the sole rulers of the season.  There should be solid trees, playing with the buffeting wind, dropping nuts and acorns.  A good oak leaf will smell like rain on concrete, and crunch, but not crumble, underfoot.   The wind should be playful, batting at your hair and whipping your skirt around.  It should not be worried about hauling winter in, but should cavort between the slowly moving beast and the world, letting it arrive at its own pace.  

   Perhaps I am the only person who appreciates the slow moving fall of the Ozarks.  It is a practical slowing down, a time to start thinking of rest, even as we hurry to prepare for winter.    

   What defines your Fall?