Writer’s Block: Autumn Begins

Yes, Autumn is its own season. Well actually, "Autumn" is the word people use where they don’t actually have weather. I mean, let’s be honest here people. Where the time of year we are discussing is something of note, it is called Fall. 

And Fall is the best time of year. 

It is the wildest of the seasons. It does not have summer’s self-satisfied languor, or spring’s overeager exuberance. It does not have the brutal power of winter. Fall is untamable joy. 

…The road becomes an open invitation.

Fall is mornings of golden light and silver fog, easing into days of such pure colour it makes your chest hurt. Fall is when the air smells of wood smoke and snow one moment, and nothing but the wild sea the next. 

Oh, the sea. White caps on the bay. Winds straight from Ireland, stinging feeling into your cheeks. Salt in the air, and impossible blue on the water. The sound of the waves under the stars.  

Days where the colours on the hills are chiefly static flame. Days where the world is composed of impossibly detailed monochrome. Days where the wind greets you like an old friend, and days where the fog hints at mountains and castles in every hollow. 

Here Fall lasts a full three months, and I wouldn’t forfeit a single day of it. 

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