Whether the Weather…

I forget how New England seasons are from year to year. I forget that November (and even October some years) can mean snow. I remembered very quickly this past Monday morning when I awoke to the ground covered in white slush. It wasn’t snow as much as icy sleet pellets; either way, it was entirely unexpected. White ice stones still sit beside the road, reminding and preparing us for when snow decides to come and stay.

November is what the locals like to call “stick season.” No, it’s not a pretty time of year, but it’s honest. I like being able to see tree’s skeletons, erect as stately ballerinas against the brilliant fall sky. I like seeing colors and shapes that are concealed during the rest of the year beneath snow or greenery: the reds and rusts of berries and branches, the shriveled apples and grapes that still hang hopefully from the trees and vines, the gnarled textures and smooth sheets of bark. Fall is a discovery, hanging precariously on the edge of winter. I optimistically gather fall in my arms, pleading with it to hang on just a little longer before the ground freezes and the landscape becomes hard and cold.