Fall is by far my favorite season.  Today, a bright yellow leaf fell onto my lap iva the sunroof while driving.  If that doesn't signal fall's arrival, i'm not sure what does (all the ass-ish driving of Amherst College parents in for Parent's Weekend)?

And we are in the best possible window of autumn weather.  The sun is still bright and warm, the leaves are still in their orange and yellows, and the New York tourists aren't yet creeping down the streets at 15 mph looking at the exotic flora.  (i apparently am dealing with a good deal of out-of-state animosity).  It is solidly sweatshirt weather, with no real fear that you'll be caught out without more layers.  The colors and crispness of the air draws you out into the world, beckoning you to explore and appreciate the wooded kaleidoscope just beyond our yards and televisions.  Breathe it in once more before it retires, unburdened and unapologetic, cut by the quiet blade of a night's frost.

But Fall is not all imagery, top of the rainbow colors, and free candy.  It does have its faults.  Like fireworks, Fall bursts onto our scene with such an onslaught of color, excitement, and sensory overload.   And then, just as quickly as the sky exploded in fire, white smoke and the burnt smell of spent gunfire wafts over the grassy field turning it into a ghost town in honor of spent fun.  The smoke hanging around you like ancestors come to check on your process.

Fall is like the new Bond films, blowing the majority of its special effect budget on a killer (007 pun) opening sequence, which leaves practically no room for one-upsmanship in later chase sequences.  Fall has one amazing trick. One one-hit wonder that can never be overplayed on the radio.  But, unfortunately for Fall, it leads with the show, not an opening act.  We don't get to hear the B-side of Fall before working our way to the track we all know and love.  And so, 3:53 seconds later, as the hook of the refrain comes round back to the chorus for one the last time, we are left with Fall's dregs for the next two months.  The cider at the bottom of the punch bowl which is mostly over-saturated and over-run with cinnamon sticks.  Tree's gone back inside themselves, freezing out the memory of their former heads of lustrous hair.  Leaving us with a feeling similar being broken up with for a justifiable reason.  Inwardly you have closure, but you still feel shitty overall.

Fall needs a trick up its sleeve.  Something like multicolored sap drippings that cascade down trees' bark in mid-November.  Late-harvst mushrooms that sprout hundreds of other tiny mushrooms off their grandiose caps.  A fauna-fuck fest that takes place deep in the woods and can only be witnessed by those determined to sit and sleep in a tree for the week surrounding the event.

I'm just spit-balling here.  But, it would be nice to having something to pull me from the warmth of the oil-heater and high definition surreality.  I could go skiing . . . but really, that's more winter's thing.