Season

Asked to name their favorite season, most will say fall. But, truly perhaps it is easier to love the spring around these parts. Days lengthen and warm, the gray pallor our winter world has taken on for days on end shows cracks where the greens find entrance, possibility, it seems, seeps back into the sky.

They love fall, yes, but often with the addendum, "But I don't love what comes after." I argue that true affection comes not only from the indulgence of those beautiful, comfortable cool days, but also from recognition of consequence. Lovely October transforms into flat cold November. The runner in me knows and does appreciate this fact. November and after will not keep me indoors and inactive. I will run.

And so it was that autumn's bellwethers were evident on last Thursday's six miler. That chill had returned that portends stocking caps, gloves, breath caught in air, and yet a ripe orange harvest moon hung over the long dormant red brick Libby's pumpkin processing plant where I pass by often, but tonight bathed in fiery evening light, a beacon of change of its own, speaking to the rotations, ebbs and flows of season.

Lingering in the air the unmistakable scent of woodsmoke, a sure sign to compliment night air on perspiring skin. To the edge of town, moon hangs cerulean now over fields just faded a rusty brownish tint, some left stubble by an eager early-season harvester.

In the ditch along the fields, sumac, wine red halfway up its length, surely bloodied only recently by autumn's initial blade tip thrust. Only a mere rosebud splash of plasma. The others, the maples, oaks, display patience, still overwhelmingly summer green, yet ready to accept fate. It is palpable, this certainty.

Down the final half mile home I run lightly. Darkness has crept in quickly, air thick with night cold now. For myself, even knowing what is to come after, I can say with confidence--fall is my favorite season.