When I lived in the mountains, I learned each season like it was a new language; the peculiar winds that blew down from the Rockies, the angled light across foothill scrub, the vapour-thin, hot air of summer. And it took a full year before it became familiar. And then when autumn circled around again, I recognized it and felt at home. I could look to the sky and say, a Chinook is coming.

Small things matter a lot to me and these small things make a place home.

Last night, I walked home and looking at the ginkgo trees thought, this is the last shade of green they go before they go yellow. The changes so minuscule you doubt that you could really know that. But I trust some animal part of me reads these signs, has learned this terrain, has staked out this territory and knows it viscerally in detail that I don't always articulate.

When change is in the air these senses really tingle. Summer's beating heat or winter's scalding cold numb me. But my whole body awakens with the minuscule changes of transitional seasons. The sky, the air, the light, the rain, the movement in the earth, the way sound moves through thinning or thickening air, the unfurling, the falling. The straining for what's to come.

Have a lovely weekend!
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