Prompted by my last ruminations on fall, which have continued, for me, in the past couple of days of cool weather and fallen leaves, I asked my Animus what he liked about autumn.
He made a face. "It's not my favorite time of year. Whenever I think of it, all I can think of is raking up leaves off the property, the thought, 'If we just cut these trees down, we won't have to do this every year,' trimming back grape vines for next spring, leaving everything barren and cold."
"But you harvested the grapes, right?"
"Sure, but that was only a week. Then, as I said, it was cold and ugly; not yet Christmas, but no longer warm."
There was a moment of silence before I said, "I need the sun and warmth, but I can't deny that there are some things I love about fall. There's a new hue to the hunter's moon; there's a taste to the breeze, swollen by Indian summer days and rapidly cooled by nightfall; there are corn mazes and apple-picking; ciders and pumpkins and spices..."
"You're right," my Animus replied. "It's the time of year when you can start using your oven again, when you can start cooking soups and stews."
Tungsten lights of the domestic scene take on new meaning against a nightfall that comes earlier and faster; the body passes from the dichotomous hot-but-cold into a genuine appreciation for blankets' warmth; it's a new appreciation and delineation just of what it means to be hot or cold.
1 week ago