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.

I just took a short walk. Fall is hands-down the loveliest time of year to work on a college campus — especially one with some years on it. The ivy rusting on the brick walls and stone towers. The morning dew pooling on the well-worn surfaces of flagstones and steps. And the falling leaves swirling about the students, sweatshirted and capped, hustling to class, tossing the football or lounging on the mall in the autumn sun. And here in Minnesota, even the trees wear maroon and gold this time of year …

Yesterday, Minnesota Public Radio did a short bit on on the upside of pessimism, which, if you have no time to listen right now, can be summed up by the old saying, “Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed.”

So I can’t fault my friend’s outlook on autumn. The truth is, we all know it can’t last; the beauty of the season is its brilliant downward spiral toward the long sleep of winter.

On the other hand, I would give up summer altogether for six months of October. Six month of frosty mornings, cool afternoons, and colorful evenings — ideally followed by six weeks of fluffy snow from Thanksgiving to New Year’s, and the balance, greening spring.

My list of fall downers parallels Jacqui’s. I see any number of uppers; I could go all day: Back to school, regular bedtimes, lack of bugs … but these are more accurately attributed to the end of summer than the start of fall. Let’s see; why autumn:*

– It’s well-worn college sweatshirt weather.

– It’s pumpkin-carving season.

– It’s bonfire weather.

– It’s hunting-camp season.**

– It’s wool and leather weather.

– It’s migration season.

– It’s crock-pot weather.

– It’s leaf season.

– It’s hot cider weather.

– It’s harvest season.

* * * * *

*Many of these autumn highlights aren’t exclusive to fall, but, I would argue, are certainly enhanced by it.

**It’s just plain hunting season, too — but the camp experience is key to me. Some of my best hunting trips involved never taking a shot.