Autumn. That season of slowing, winding, stillness that creeps its way unnoticed into our minds. Naturally, the human rhythm quietens, in time with nature, in tune with the earth, as for millennia. The food we cook, the clothes we wear…we nest and burrow, readying for the cold months, the darkness, preparing our bodies and minds, even in this modern day. In our northern latitude, something pulls us, something inexplicable.
The trees drop their leaves and blanket the ground around them, a dense carpet of reds and golds and browns and yellows. That smell, that oh-so-familiar, comforting scent drifting on the breeze. A breeze that is like glass, sharp, slicing, colder now, a hint, a glint of things to come.
Even the sun sinks lower, bathing us, tiny and small, in a blanket of golden rays, a farewell until its glowing return as the seasons pass, climbing higher into the sky as summer beckons far away.
A blanket, a crackling fire. A human in another’s arms. A cat sleeping, circular, purring. Steam lazily lifting from a mug. Darkness and pinpricks of stars outside and the whistle of wind, gusting through window cracks and sounding hollow as it echoes down, through stone flues, whipping bare branches as trees sway in the black. A small comfort, echoed over decades as the season draws closer and once more, we wrap ourselves in this thing we call autumn.