I am an autumn junkie. I revel in the crunch of leaves under foot, the way the wind sounds as it rushes through oaks overloaded with the dried remnants of summer, and the cozy layers of clothes that the cooler air demands of us. I suffer through Atlanta's smog and the heat of June, July, and August only because of the payoff that mornings like this one provide.
Right now, the temperature is a fairly brisk 62 on my screened in back porch, and a pleasant, sunny breeze is pushing it at my bare legs (it's still shorts season, after all) with enough gusto to keep my fingers chilled and make typing an adventure. I've been waiting for mornings like these for months and months, and I feel nothing but gratitude for this happy result of the literal shift in the world's orbit.
I was e-mailing a poet friend of mine yesterday, and she remarked that "autumn is when dying becomes beautiful." God I love the poets, and the autumn, and the 23-and-a-half degree wobble of the Earth's axis that makes the seasons change. This season above all others.