“I love the fitfull gusts that shakes
The casement all the day
And from the mossy elm tree takes
The faded leaf away
Twirling it by the window-pane
With thousand others down the lane

I love to see the shaking twig
Dance till the shut of eve
The sparrow on the cottage rig
Whose chirp would make believe
That spring was just now flirting by
In summers lap with flowers to lie

I love to see the cottage smoke
Curl upwards through the naked trees
The pigeons nestled round the coat
On dull November days like these
The cock upon the dung-hill crowing
The mill sails on the heath a-going

The feather from the ravens breast
Falls on the stubble lea
The acorns near the old crows nest
Fall pattering down the tree
The grunting pigs that wait for all
Scramble and hurry where they fall” (John Clare)

So far, Autumn has come in snatches. A little fall here, a little fall there. But there is still a lot of warm weather. Right now, I live for the early mornings and late evenings when the crispness returns to the air instead of the middle of the day that still feels like summer.

I’m thankful for it all, but something in my soul awakens when the temps drop below 70. There’s a hint of sweet decay in the air from all the leaves dying and falling off the trees. I breathe in the perfumes of fall and breathe out thanksgiving.

I’m ready to break out the flannel and drink all the hot apple cider. I’m ready for pumpkins and colorful foliage and bonfires. I’m ready for all of it.