I saw this photo today and realized... fall isn't that far away.
Having lived my childhood in a place that, well, didn't get seasons, I dismissed fall. Now that I'm up here, we get seasons. Not dramatic, -60 degree winters or anything, but seasons none the less.
And I like fall.
I still think winter is my favorite. There's something cozily appealing about the cold outside and the warm inside a house. And, despite the cold, there is bustle about.
But fall... fall is telling. There are days it tells us beware of the cold approaching, but also warmer days reminicent of summer. It tells that the year is ending. Leaves crackle. Trees become bare. Green lingers but slowly faces.
There are those few fabulous weeks of leaves. Bright leaves, of every color. Up here, the trees are mixed in with evergreens, so you have a fabulous blanket of green with color pops over all the foothills.
The mud will return. The rain will pour down. The snowplows (the few out here) will turn into leaf pushers. The views will disappear, covered by an almost-ever-present mist. And when that mist does fade, the mountains will appear, covered in white as if dipped into a gigantic vat of powdered sugar.
Strange how seeing one photo like this will elicit so much feeling. Especially on a day like today, when it is nearly 100 degrees outside. Maybe it's a longing.
But summer's not over yet; there's still a lot to enjoy before those leaves go crunch under my feet.