If you’re a student of meteorology or an avid reader of The Farmer’s Almanac, you are no doubt aware that we have just experienced the autumnal equinox. You don’t have to be a neighbour of Stonehenge to see that, for a few days, the hours of darkness and sunlight are equal in length. To be more direct, the season has changed, it is now fall.
The challenge this year is that it doesn’t seem like fall. The change from summer to autumn in the Lower Mainland is the most dramatic of seasonal transitions. The other season changes are marked only by the change in temperature of the rain water.
This year I’m not ready for fall to arrive. I’m enjoying walking around in shorts and T-shirts and eating meals on the deck or picnic table. Normally we have dragged out sweaters and jeans, polished the boots and pulled hoodies and jackets from the back of the closet.
The situation is somewhat like waiting for a flight arrival at the airport. We keep checking the time and date, looking out the window and wondering how much longer the delay will be.
The sounds and smells of fall are very distinct and we usually sense the change coming, preceded by a cool breeze or an occasional downpour. But this year, the air conditioning is still on and the sunglasses are still handy. Besides, I don’t hear anyone complaining about the delayed arrival.
But I’ve decided to take a new position. I’m not waiting, watching or listening any longer. I’ll take all the sun that nature is prepared to deliver. At least that’s what McGregor says.
I’m Not Listening
Wind chimes are tinkling softly today,
With a message in that gentle ring;
I don’t want to hear
About storms on the way
Or the cold dreary days
They will bring.
Brown leaves try to catch my attention,
Calling without making a sound;
I don’t want to hear
About fallen branches
Or raking leaves
That cover my ground.
Canada geese are V-lining south,
Warning with whispering wings;
I don’t want to hear
About oncoming seasons,
I know they’re not gaggling
About spring.
The poet is writing
About autumn again,
Searching for rust-coloured words;
I don’t want to read about
Pumpkins or frost,
Changing trees, or south flying birds.
The season will change
If I listen or not,
Let me enjoy one last fall afternoon;
Lately it seems, seasons are shorter,
And they’re coming and going
Too soon!