Now we’re on the other end of summer, and although the drought set up house for the long term, signs of autumn abound. I’ve never felt so surprised by a change of season before.
Standing outside in a sweater, no less, I look to the west. Trees are turning yellow, leaves are falling, the native prairie — although strangely yellowed from drought — is reddening too. In town, the maples are reddening. The air alternates between balmy and crisp, and I haven’t worn shorts in a week.
Why it’s startling, in a good way, is because since late May, many of us in this
Dead grass, hose to water trees daily to keep them alive, and one newly-fallen leaf
region have been weather-conditioned to expect swelter or dry sauna when we stepped outside. So many days, the only tolerable time on the deck was before 9 a.m. or after 9 p.m. in the barrage of 105, 109, 102, and look! a cold front, 98 degree days.
Fall? Absolutely. Winter? Bring it on! Meanwhile, I’m going to keep looking at the falling and changing world around me so happy and stunned that what seemed endless was, of course, anything but.
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