Highway 62

Ah, autumn. Best of all seasons. Where the promises of summer are revealed to be the fertile loam from which winter grows and propers.

Or something like that.

A particularly piquant date for me as I look down the barrel of a move which will take me from my beloved Southern California to the vast and unknown wilderness of Northern California. (Well, Southern Northern California, really.) I will never see the slanting sunlight on the rolling gold hills quite the same way again. Nor will I see the afternoon haze lending a glow to all things like smogborne fairy-dust. Shadows are growing and the sun's going to be rising a little lower in the sky every day. The Santa Ana winds will whip around me one last time (I hope) and I'll say farewell in the best of the seasons, here in Dreamland.

Summer is too hot (and too moist by a far sight). Winter too gray and springtime too bright. But fall? Fall is something else altogether.