One of the biggest complaints I hear from midwesterners who have migrated to southern california (and there are a LOT of them, you’d be surprised) is that there aren’t any seasons here. I admit, I have been guilty of this myself. Of course, if you get me started talking about how awful snow is I won’t stop until you give up and walk away.
Yesterday morning though, I felt that familiar twinge. Folks who live in the midwest (and probably any other place that has real seasons) know what I’m talking about. It’s not dramatic. It’s very subtle. The leaves haven’t changed, but there’s something different, a little spark. The air is a little cooler, and everything is a little sharper. The haze is on vacation.
It’s not a real season, but it’s close. The clouds hung low over the city earlier this week like a cozy comforter, and when it was lifted up, there was fall, just hanging out. It’s much more subtle here. Tomorrow it will probably be 80 degrees, but I can still feel fall.
Maybe it’s because my body is just expecting fall to pounce around this time of year. Who knows, but fall tapped on my shoulder this week and made me smile.
the Good Heretic 