The Change

Occasionally I envy the folks who live in beautiful Mediterranean climates, who get dry, sunny air year-round and can lie on the beach in December if they have a fancy to. But not in the fall. In the fall I love the hush that comes over everything, the way the world seems to hold its breath for a moment while the weather changes from soggy to crisp, and the night air chills the house, and the cat and I both begin to sniff the air for the smell of curling leaves.

I want apples, and I want them now.

I want to pluck them off a curving branch, beneath a blinding sun that's turning the leaves into jade. Today I went so far as to hallucinate myself a batch of apples in a city garden. but of course they were just red plastic lanterns strung on a branch.

Perhaps this weekend I can find a little bit of forest. I heard tell of one you can ride to, if you have the legs for it. I'm going to pack lots of snacks. And a map. And a little compass, just in case.

I also want wool, another sure sign of fall. Just when I begin to wonder if I'll ever have the urge to knit again, if that stash will have to be auctioned off upon my death, I suddenly find that I'm knitting hats for friends. Or little neckwarmers for biking. Or mittens. Or that drop-stitch scarf from Shannon's blue yarn.

Clickety click. Only that's not quite the sound, since the needles are wood and therefore a little quieter. I like that sound. It's subdued and homey. I wish I could teach Kitwich to knit, so I could listen to it properly.

That's all there is to tell, really. The bike rides were beautiful today, and a huge orange half-moon hung in the sky as I pedaled home tonight. No boys to speak of, but it's only Friday...