Fall here isn’t the heart-wounding musical sobs of Verlaine, but rapidly shifting contrasts. The wind was tearing at the poplars this morning, and I was certain it was bitter and biting. But my sweatshirt felt heavy, hot, and the thermometer was in the mid-60s. On my hike the other day, the leaves on the trail had that earthy early-autumn smell, the one that turns to more of a wet rot be the beginning of winter. One strong wind has stripped the leaves of most of their color, and the cider mill is serving it hot.
PalKid’s getting older, something I thought would kill me, but it’s a blast. I picked her up from school the other day, swung by the bagel shop, and we sat having coffee (water for her) doing her homework. She asked me last night what I wanted to be if I wasn’t a doctor. It’s fascinating to watch as she starts to develop real empathy, a real desire to know how other people see things.
Today I’ll watch the last of the leaves blow away, and tomorrow, a mystery. Could be hot, could be cold, could be full of good news or bad. We can predict the seasons but the rest is up for grabs.