The year's last warm day

The year's last warm day is bittersweet. On Friday as I walked up the hill to my daughter's school, a light film of sweat on my skin, the sun hot on my bare arms and legs, I welcomed the cool, autumn wind promised by the leaves underfoot. Now that Thanksgiving has passed, and we've dug out our sweaters, jackets and fleece, I am already in mourning. No longer will I write with the windows wide open, the sounds from the street outside keeping me connected with the real world. Now the house is shut up tight, and here I sit, with only leaves, all shades of ocher, dancing outside my window.

Autumn is a lonely season.