The season starts with hints and whispers. Autumn’s first glimpse comes in the glint of firey color amidst the green, the first note caught in a cool crisp breeze. But autumn, like spring, comes quickly after that first glimpse. Spring bursts forth in green, springing up, exhilarating like a rockets swift ascent. Autumn bursts asunder in a brilliant panoply of color, awesome like some blazing wreckage plunging to crash in the bleakness of winter. Spring is stitched together in its glory, Autumn unravels in the midst of its splendor. The two seasons are alike in displaying beauty, but are different in nearly every other aspect.

Everyone in these northern climates notices the reds, yellows, and oranges that deck the trees in their autumn finery. But if you stop and really look, you will see there is even more color. As the leaves begin to fall away the trees with their branches begin to show, displaying a mottling of blacks and browns which form a contrasting background to the brightness of the leaves. With the fall coolness and rains following summer the grass revives to a brilliant green, a counter-point to the fresh clear blue of the sky, so often ribboned with hurrying white clouds. It all comes together in the most diverse and entrancing display of colors.

Autumn has its bad days, that is true. There are those dim days when sullen clouds hang low in the sky, drizzling a chill rain that doesn’t seem to be doing much of anything, or going much of anywhere. Those are the days when Autumn is in a pout, and when you stand at the window, staring at the wetly dropping leaves and dolefully think about what has past, and what is soon to come. There is that part of autumn which shouts of the lessening daylight, the lengthening nights which weigh so heavily on me. As the last notes of Autumn’s symphony fades with the final falling of the leaves, one cannot escape the knowledge that the season of monochrome has been heralded, the span of silence where darkness so often reigns supreme. It is that bleak darkness of winter which makes such a poor companion for me.

Thankfully, much of autumn is not like that. The words of autumn are: Active, Clear, and Crisp. The muggy haze of summer is swept away with autumn’s invasion, and the air becomes clear and crisp. Everything seems crisp–the sky, the leaves, the water burbling through the creek. Thoughts dulled by summers languor are sharpened again, and energy lost in the sweltering heat returns with vigor.

The wind sings Autumn’s song. It sighs and whispers round, murmuring of work to be done. It rustles through the leaves, speaking a note of lightness and unconcern which lifts the heart. Then it comes with power. Oh, to experience a windy autumn day with its bustle, bluster, and gust. There is a majestic beauty in watching the spring and summer thunderstorms, and there is a majestic beauty in beholding an autumn windstorm. The wind whips round, tugging the body onward, and still onward, saying, Come, come away and when it strikes the trees they all lift their branches as one and roar like a great chorus in mighty unison, a great shout that sets the leaves free, ascending to the heavens. At the sight, and with the sound, the heart surges upward. Go! Autumn sings. Go, and soon we will be free.

Autumn is a time for traveling. It is a time to hike the trails, walk the paths, and bike the roads. It is a time to savor what is, to linger with that which is quickly passing, to feel the sun on your face, the leaves beneath your feet, and smell the special pungent aroma that is known only in autumn’s fallen leaves. There are the times to walk alone, with the silence of your thoughts, memories, and reflections beneath the golden curtain of falling leaves. And there are the times to travel together, to speak, to share, to cherish the time and people had. If there is one thing I regret most about autumn, perhaps it is the lack of this–to live where getting out once seems such an accomplishment.

Autumn is a season of goodbye. There we see a burst of red, here a flash of yellow, and yet still a shooting tower of orange. It is the fireworks show at the end of the celebration, the last hurrah at the end of a long happy day. The little birds are some of the first to go, gathering in their bustle, chittering and squawking, “Goodbye, goodbye.” The flowers go, with a silent bowing “Goodbye,” hurried out by frost’s first sharp touch. The geese take leave, winging their way high above, not a thought to tarry, honking, “Goodbye, goodbye,” as they leave those emptying trees behind. Last are the leaves, scraping softly as they tumble across the ground, the quite adieu, the final, “Goodbye, goodbye.” Yes, autumn is a season of goodbye but there is not a season better made for the parting, to say it happily and with good-cheer, to cushion the gentle sorrow of what is lost.