The air is filled with an autumn haze and yet there are days when the air is so transparent it reflects light like fine crystal.

The atmosphere is replete with the essential scent of autumn. Its a scent very different from the flowery perfume of spring. It’s composed of dry leaves crackling under foot, of decaying fruit encircling the fruit bearing trees and brisk scent early morning frost.

There’s a stillness to the air quite the opposite of mornings in spring when the myriad vocalizations of many birds can be heard from every direction.

It is the kind of hush that falls across the audience at the conclusion of a great symphony when the audience is reluctant to break the magical spell created by a majestic orchestral performance.

Every thing about autumn is reminiscent of a grand finale as though nature saved the best for last as though the great performance that begin with the trumpet cry of spring must reach this great autumnal crescendo and then fall silent.

Soon the mournful skies of November will weep tears of remorse as the growing season comes to a close, but those tears nourish the seeds of spring that now lie hidden in the heart of the earth.

The circle of the seasons contains the secret of life’s continuity as it was so shall it be again.