An Extra Dash of Seasoning

I love the turning over of seasons, especially the shovel's blade of fall cutting into hardened summer soil.  There is so much hope and relief and quiet excitement packed into the flipping of a calendar's page.  Even the thought of the first football Saturday quickens my heart, which says a lot, considering how many years it's been since I've attended a game.

Early September is packed with signs of change--the sun's arc slowly flattening, Casiopea nudging its way westward in the night sky, the crickets' steady evensong now more opus than undercurrent.  Even the neighbor's Linden tree has begun to pull out its fall wardrobe.

Yes, a person could view such things as sure signs of the gloom that awaits us three months from now--the flat, cold steel of winter--but I have no time for such pessimists.

Today, at least, I will fill up on monarchs and swallowtails, and praise the praying mantises and yellow-tinged leaves that punctuate my walks.  For now, I hum along to the crickets' choir, glad for the relentlessness of their leggy instruments, unconcerned about winter's silence that inevitably awaits me.