The season of fall is a free for all, it is the treasure chest of natures colour palette flung wide for any and every reaching heart.
The season of fall is the season of all, for it is the perfect temperature, ambient and kind, married to the colours of vivid childhood dreams.
The season of fall kindles in the treetops, the vivid hues chattering as new friends set to embark upon a journey.
In this season of fall, the breeze has a way of moving my hair, of tousling it into buoyant curls. It carries with it the fragrance of earth, soft after the washing of the rain and a sweet and steady sense of joy. And as it dances with the canopies of flame, it alights both eyes and soul, yet more as the feeling of a mother's lullaby, a comforting delight.
These embryonic oaks lay upon the grass, their browns a gift to the eyes. I could watch them a while, these acorns, let this moment of bliss extend as much as the light is spreading over the horizon... but the path wends onwards and there is much journeying ahead.
The avenue was gilded with gold yet the leaves hadn't yet started to fall. Jenny raised her eyes to the garland above that was so stark against the cloudless sky. It was picture book perfect. Perhaps tomorrow there would be some scattered over the sidewalk, hiding some of the grey. That was truly her favourite time, she walked over them like a celebrity to her own movie premier, her held high and her eyes higher. She sucked in the air, how she'd missed the moistness after the dry August heat. She could wear her woollen coats and boots right to her knees. She was the queen of her own life and the trees stood as if dressed for her coronation. The street lamps sent down a soft glow and the hum of the city around her was better than an orchestra. This was the start of the rest of her life, she could feel it.
The early fall has passed, it must be well into November now. The skies have been low and grey these past few days, the rain has fallen as thick as any I've ever seen. I know there has been a significant change when I notice things that have been out of mind since the previous winter. I notice the air; it is cold, drawing the heat from my skin and leaving me even paler than before. I notice each breath I take; the moisture from my lungs rising in thick plumes before me with each exhale. I notice that every drop of rain has the icy kiss of winter, a promise of the season the follow. And whilst the late fall and winter will bring harshness, I embrace it. Without the sun I can move with greater ease, the freedom is almost intoxicating,
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by daisy.
I know the season has become fall when the leaves on the cherry trees blush pink or gold. These hues are better than prozac for me. It means the harshness of the summer sun is dying and although I will still mostly travel by night - the daytime won't be such a hazard. The air isn't yet chilled, often the heat lingers until well into October, an "Indian summer" my mother used to say. The shortening days mean longer nights, more time to loot undercover, to bring back goods unseen. It also means colder nights and frigid floors in the old bank, but I'd rather that than the heat of August. I have more clothes than anyone could ever use in a lifetime and all of them black. I can add layers and wear squall jackets, in the heaviest downpours, the ones where you can't see even a yard in front of you, I stay home like everyone else. Getting your kit drenched is just senseless.
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by daisy.
Only weeks ago the air was warm and the streets in the wide avenue were deep summer green, the whispering rustle of the leaves only audible once the daytime traffic petered to an almost stop. Now they are tinged with red and gold; not yet deserting their lofty branches in the gusts that penetrate the fabric of my jacket. It won't be long before I set off for work in the dark and return in the dark, my only light the artificial glow of the fluorescent tube above my desk. Already I long for the first warm rays of the spring, wishing the fall and winter was already a faded memory.
As the days wane, the nights close in and the trees don their vibrant hues, a chill creeps into the air. Not the bite of wintry blusters, but just a nip to let us know a new season is at hand. The wide avenue is lit by the first rays of the day, shining through a thin layer of grey cloud like a stain glass window. No more are the trees their virescent hues of spring and summer, but are scarlets and gold. In just a few weeks they will stand naked in the frozen air, bereft of their gaiety. Already the usual grey of the concrete sidewalk is adorned with their transient beauty. As I walk to the bus stop in my black woollen coat, I deliberately tread on each one to hear the crunch. Just ahead a leaf tumbles from it's weary branch, it twists and rocks as it falls through the almost still air. I pause to listen for the sound it makes as it joins it's brethren on the ground, but it is lost in the drone of the traffic.
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