“There is a midsummer. There is a midwinter. But there is no midspring or midautumn. These are seasons of constant change. Like dawn and dusk they are periods of transition. But like night and day and day and night they merge slowly, gradually.” Edwin Way Teale, Autumn Across America.

Mid-autumn. The leaves are falling. Some days I can sit on the patio and see, when gusts of breeze tickle the tops of the oaks, leaves rain down like huge flakes of snow, colored red, yellow, brown and gold.

The arc of the sun is lower still, and sun shines through the wall of south windows, reaching far into the house, warming the air.

Sunrise comes later, sunset comes sooner. The days shorten, and the movement of the cool air is like the breath of the planet, relaxing at the end of summer heat.

No two days are the same. The light is in continual flux, and the leaves are in a perpetual state of falling. Some hang on the branches of the oaks, as if they are afraid of the earth below, while the green ashes drop their leaves quickly and carelessly, as if they prefer their naked winter branches to the lush fullness of summer green.

Each autumn vista is a feast of color, such a mix of greens and yellows, reds and browns that I am inspired to become a painter – but fear that I could never do the beautiful reality justice. Words seem inadequate, but they are all I have.