Autumn has arrived in the Pacific NW. That certain crispness in the air that nips at you when you walk out the door pre-dawn. The crunch of leaves underfoot that creates wildness even in urban settings. And my favorite—morning fog rising like steam from the valley up to The Summit when I take my morning walk. Summer seemed to last f o r e v e r. And even unseasonably hot days continue to float into the forecast and suddenly I’m wearing shorts again for a day or two. But night is overtaking day earlier and cools off the heat with its breath. And I say to myself, “You made it.”
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Cricket songs offer me a nightly symphony, a sure sign autumn has arrived even as we are set for a hot spell the next week in my Pacific NW neighborhood. Being awash in their chirps grounds me. Brings me back into my body as I sit and breath in and out their consistent thrum, listening for other night noises. It is usually the hum of cars passing by or a drift of conversation from a neighbor, but, occasionally I can hear a tree branch yawing upward toward the moon or flapping wings of a bird out past curfew.
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I rise these days with the sun. The alarm has been set aside. I walk instead of swim. I’ve become reacquainted with my neighborhood. The pulse of spring rife with birdsong flows around me like the water of the pool used to. Daffodils are leaving the main stage and tulips have made their entrance. Two weeks ago, an apple tree with furled cocoon-like leaves and tight, cream colored buds is now a riotous white and green harbinger of late summer delight. Last week I walked to the highest point in our neighborhood to see the pink moon grazing tree tops. No sense of hurry—the moon or I.
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Spring is making an early appearance in the Pacific NW and I suppose I am happy about that. The daffodils are starting to bloom and daffodils of all ilk were my mother’s and are one of my favorite flowers. Our winter has been wet, but no bitter cold snaps and snow has remained in the mountains where I prefer it. I’ve relished the long, dark nights and even the endless days of January rain didn’t bother me while many of my friends shared feelings of being sucked into a gray cloud the size of the state of Oregon. So, I guess I’m happy spring is less than four weeks away.
