It was three days ago that something about the yellow tinge in the Bigleaf Maples told me we’ve moved into autumn.
Not astronomical autumn, which begins when our daylengths and night-lengths stretch out to greet each other as equals. Nor meteorological autumn, which begins here officially on September 1, a date chosen for easier comparison of whole months past and elsewhere.
But sensory, body-felt, soul-autumn, the kind that gets me thinking about the seasons of my life.
Yellow birds are swinging through, too, stopping by for a quick drink of the fresh water in the birdbath during this annual season of drought. They’re on their way back south for the winter, briefly brightening my day with their quick flashes of feathered sunlight in the shrubs.
As I was talking with my 95-year-old father the other day, so grateful, a Western Tanager shyly made her way through the thick foliage, carrying just a little reddish fire on her otherwise gold-and-black body.
This spring I turned 65 and am feeling the slight yellow tinge that goes with checking that last box on the survey-population list: [√] 65 and older.
But as the autumnal season unfolds and the gold around me grows, it’s not winter yet. I can still feel the little fire, yet unquenched, warming.