Taking Time to Feel the Fall

The days, I’ve noticed, have slightly changed. In early mornings when I take a breath, a cool stream fills my chest. A faint fog blows before me. I jump and shake and move my limbs, rubbing my hands, warming my finger tips.

All around it looks like summer—the grass is green, the trees are full, the sun is bright. But some things are different. The crickets have quieted, and the bird-chirps are lower, longer, the sounds seeping into the chilled air. Though still green, there is a trace of turning of the leaves—fading tips, spots of russet.

In the nearby fields the towering sunflowers have started to die. They are hunched and bent, tired from standing so tall for so long. The cornstalks stand firm, but they too will soon begin to bend. The neighborhood gardens are blooming with fuchsia and lavender and yellow and blue, impatiens still spreading, covering the beds. There is, though, a hint of decline—crumpled petals, dropped leaves, specks of brown.

I want to see and feel every bit of fall before the days become shorter, before the darkness makes me feel heavy and slow and more tired than I know I should be. Soon the leaves will turn brilliant gold and orange and red, and then they will dry up and fall. The flowers in the beds—even the hearty mums—will wither and crumble and mix with the ground. The cool air will turn bitterly cold, and people will be buttoning coats, turning up collars, hurrying along.

So I will stop to look at the stooping sunflowers, at the turning leaves, at the slightly withering petals. I will listen to the birds and strain to hear the last remnants of the crickets. I will feel the cool air on my bare skin. I will breathe as long and hard and slow as I can, taking it all in. Before it is gone.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2006)