It’s taken us until January to have any measurable snow and it’s also taken us until January to buy food for our bird feeder.  Last year, we had tons of cardinals in our trees, and I’m very happy to say that they (along with some chickadees and blue jays and Big Daddy thinks he saw an Oriole(?)) have returned.

Pardon the grain/blur.  I was taking them from inside the house and had my lens cranked as far as it could go.

Mr. and Mrs.

Just the mister, puffed up against the cold.

It makes me beyond happy to look out the windows and saw all the red in the trees.  Last year, I counted up to 20.

I can smell her there.   Waiting there in the wings for her turn on the stage.  She’s a little nervous.  You see, her lovely older sister is still performing.  People LOVE her sister.  They wait for her.  They lament her passing.  They miss her while she’s gone and in their moping, people always take her for granted.

She doesn’t come with the biting cold or bright glittering snows of winter.

She doesn’t come with the bursting blossoms of flowers and bright yellow green of spring.

She doesn’t come with languid days and firefly lit nights and bright sunny skies.

She comes as herself.

She always looks on the bright side.  She could be winter. Hardly ANYONE likes that sister.  But she wishes people wouldn’t feel so sad that she’s shown up.  She knows that once her act closes her other sister that hardly anyone likes takes over and that tends to color people’s opinion of her, but you can’t help who you’re related to.  And, besides, she thinks Winter is plenty pretty.

But she’s always glad when she hears someone say that someone loves her best.

When they call her their favorite.

When they get giddy over crisp air and pumpkins and wool sweaters and boots.

She loves the people who get a spring in their step when the first crispness comes into the air.  She loves how their pour over their favorite soup recipes, waiting for that first cold day.  She loves how they inhale deeply to smell her smells.  Not clear like winter, or fresh like spring or bright like summer, but old and earthy.  Time worn.  Like a book whose pages you’ve touched so many times that they bear the imprint of you.

She checks her watch.  Summer continues to dance.    But soon, she’ll be dancing too.

And I can’t wait.

Don’t hate me.  I freaking love fall!!