It does feel like I went to sleep one night and woke up the next morning in late fall. If it weren’t for the deep, fresh green of the trees it could be November. The air is wet and the skies are gray and the temperatures cool.
It is of course a small disappointment. As much as I just want to see what it is and what it means, after so much anticipation to have this sort of unseasonal weather in such a short season is frustrating.
No, this should be the time of lightning bugs and driving home late on dark damp nights when the air is palpable on a hand out the window of the car. This should be the time of orange evenings and drinks on patios. But, as always, there is absolutely nothing to be done about it.
So I sit here in a sweatshirt and jeans and the patio is damp from vague light rain. We are going canoeing on the river this weekend anyway, current conditions be damned, answering the call of an improving forecast, January pledges, and the unrelenting calendar.
To live, not exist
The promise of the season
Which I must fulfill