My favourite time of year is coming. I can smell it.
photo thanks to Quapan
Cool, clear mornings, the night stealing in darker by minutes every evening, the first low, hanging mist, grass starry with dew and the promise of frosts to come, the smell of autumn in the air, warm yellow lights on in the windows of dark houses, the leaves spinning round and round and down, halloween and the gunpowder stink of fireworks and the woodsmoke stink of bonfires and the the not very hidden child inside kicking through piles of leaves and relishing the run up to birthday and Christmas, the expectation always the best part because expectation always turns out to be better than the thing itself.
"That country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain." (Ray Bradbury)