his autumn has to be one of the most beautiful I can remember. Easily, it’s the best one I’ve experienced since I’ve moved here. These are the types of autumns that convince toward admiration those who normally despise the season. The cool air you practically have to swim through, pushing yourself along with your toes through shoals of crunchy gold and blood red leaves.

The city has shed its excess weight as it marches on into winter slumber, the streets depopulated of summer souls, the remainder being those wrapped in ever thickening blisters of wool and rich cotton, the colors of which cozy toward ever-darkening shades.

A lot of people here find misery as the nights dialate and the temperatures drop. Perhaps because I wasn’t born here, I have yet to succumb to their seasonal affliction and, instead, am exhilarated at the change. I may not like the shorter days but I love the spiky gray weather. So, I do quietly count down the days to the winter solstice for no other reason than to take comfort in the fact that we’re marching back toward a new summer. You see, I love blue skies and girls in their summer dresses too.

But for now, when I walk out in the twilight of this fantastic year, I love everything thing I see, hear, and smell. I am at home in any season but this season’s home is probably my favorite.