Perhaps Four Ages, not Seven, of Man

Dear You,

Most of the year, a turn of the calendar page has no noticeable effect on the weather. Not so for September. Yesterday, as in the past, I was taken aback when, on arising, I heard crows at my feeder instead of the lesser birds, and I heard a distinct rustle of leaves, as if they were impatient for that time when they would change color and fall onto the lawn. Sure enough, when I walked out for the newspaper, the light and the air were filled with Autumn. It was a bit chilly to take my coffee to the patio table. Overnight, Summer had slipped away.

Winter will announce itself at any time. Somewhere between late October and Christmas, my mother used to look out and announce, "Well, it's spittin' snow" and we boys would go to the window to watch the first flakes. Spring makes tentative steps -- a balmy day in March will give way to another blizzard just as soon as allow the appearance of the first shoots of flowers. As for Summer, the end of the school year is the only real demarcation I've been able to decide on, whatever the calendar says.

Do you, too, detect that moment when it really is Fall? Or might this be just because I have reached "a certain age" and have grown hypersensitive to that which signals the end of things? If the stages of life are seasons, then I have certainly reached Autumn. And, yes, it did seem to have happened overnight.