Yesterday was not my best day. Not a people day at all, as my friend Minnie used to say. I haven’t been sleeping well, and the night before last I had strange dreams, in which initially fun activities ground slowly to a halt, and I was powerless to resume them. I woke, and felt like a stiff breeze could blown me over if it wasn’t too busy passing right on through.

I spent my work day holed up in my office with the door closed, trying to write. Outside my windows, the day was damp and grey. I barely noticed. I thought perhaps I should retire to a mountain-top cave somewhere, with a welcome mat made of thumbtacks turned point-up. 5 o’clock couldn’t come soon enough.

I stepped outside and blinked dumbly. The sun was well to the west, and the rays that slipped beneath the cloud cover had brightened things up a bit. But it wasn’t the color that reached me yesterday. It was the odor.

The leaves that littered the cobblestones and pavers before the rains were now plastered flat; each footfall softened them further, and the air was ripe with tannins. You could smell the decay of wood, the earthy smell of rich river soil beneath the grass, the leavings of worms and the droppings of rabbits. You could smell the late-season mums now giving up the ghost of summer, and the tart remnants of a gray squirrel’s nutty box-lunch. You could smell the green moss between the cobbles, the slick black feather in the storm drain, the passing of countless tiny lifelets to renew one strange and spinning orb.

The smell of dank decay at the end of seasons is not always pleasant. But yesterday, a whiff of ordered, peaceful passing offered perfect perspective. Bad days pass; what remains, we hope, is fertile ground for growing tomorrow.

I staggered to the kitchen this morning, eyes half-closed, legs leaden, to discover we were out of coffee. I put my hands on the edge of the sink, blinked twice slowly, and looked out the window.

The sun had crested the house behind me, and the maples out back were ablaze with fall color — blood orange and tangerine, butternut and pumpkin. I drank the color unthinking through my eyes, and it warmed my belly.

I smiled. Coffee could wait.

Something very like this morning happened one evening last week. I was driving home from worked — struggling to clear my work-fogged brain after a day of meetings and autumn rain. Bumpers and brakelights, bumpers and brakelights. Above me the clouds shifted, but I did not see, did not notice until the sun broke through and ignited the sumac. They glowed a dark red until a breeze fanned the flames, then the trees above them burst into flames.

* * * * *

I used to think that maybe, just maybe, by the light of the harvest moon, countless Little People — pixies, fairies, imps and gnomes — ascended the trees to decorate those leaves specially, one by one. I had never yet seen these clever creatures, but was convinced my doubt had blinded me, that if I believed without reservation or fear, their magical world would unfold before me.

But I was the child of grown children and always felt that twinge of doubt. So I never saw the magic, only the glorious aftermath.

* * * * *

This fall that magical feeling has returned — but it seems a larger hand is at work. I notice this fall how the colors change like no paint I’ve ever seen. And it’s not just the leaves — a V of geese rising from the river at sunrise flash gold and silver, gold and silver, with each wing beat. The frost refracts, the fog bends, the light shatters and scatters like gemstones spilling from a secret pocket. Even the breath rising from an ancient Airedale’s nose casts swirling shadows on the yellow grass, like playful spirits dancing in the breeze.

It won’t last, of course — but winter brings its own magic. Each season passes in due time, just as you look forward to the next. At least that’s how I see it.