Until I lived up here, high on our hill in Vermont, I thought fall was just a season–really more of a harbinger of winter than anything. But New Englanders really do it up right with their pumpkins and squash and hot mulled cider, making fall a pleasant stopover in the oncoming march towards the cold, dark days. Every season seems to surprise me up here: I wonder if the greens were so green last year in the spring, if the days were always so bright and luminous in the summer, and did fall always sound like actual falling leaves? We’ve had a week of Indian summer days that have lured me back onto the deck. I sit and listen as the birds chirp merrily and the chipmunks and squirrels scurry about their business. The background is that of a gentle soaking rain, leaves first falling one or two at a time, then sounding more like someone is shaking handfuls of them onto the backs of their fallen brethren.
We got home the other night after dark and I stopped suddenly after getting out of the car. What was that sound? My husband laughed and reminded me it was just the leaves. I’m sure I will forget until next year when I wonder why the leaves seem so alive. I’ll delight in them again even though it means winter draws close.
