After eight years in Texas, I am reminded that this is what fall feels like in the north: the first chill in the air that reddens cheeks but doesn’t yet freeze ears and nose, the smell of moldy leaves, the squirrels crazed to find the last of the acorns, the rustle of gold and brown underfoot.
This morning, something in the early chill pushes me on. Jack and I cross Village Drive, ignoring our normal loop back home. On past St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church with the welcoming red doors. Past Adath Jeshurun Synagogue, next door to the church, its mid-century façade adorned with Scripture, “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet.”
By now the sun turns the cirrus clouds pink and the treetops brilliant orange. I gather up an armful of crunchy golden leaves and let them cascade over Jack’s head. But he shows no interest, intent on sniffing trails in the grass.
The sun is full, the day warming; at the halfway point, we turn and head for home.