In the south, autumn isn’t seen so much as felt. Here, it rides in on the wings of birds looking for their seasonal homes.
The leaves don’t really change, but the wind does, and it speaks of letting go, freedom, and transformation. We don’t add layers of sweaters and boots, we shed them.
Our season of harvest is nearly passed, and our rains begin to dry. It’s a time that the earth rests and, if you listen, calls for stillness on the cusp of yet unseen change.
Autumn is more subtle here, a feast for the soul more than the eyes. It’s a terrestrial whisper, a reminder that everything is always changing, even when on the outside things still look much the same.
© 2021 Cristen Writes
Image by Guy Edwardes