I woke this morning, and something in the air had changed. For one thing, a chill had appeared and I had clutched extra blankets to myself in the night. The sun shone with a subtle golden aura that presaged what would come -- the glorious russets of maple leaves, the burnished brown of oaks, the golden rain of locust trees, the delicate yellow of gingkos.
Autumn will always be my favorite season. The pagans I know believe that it is ruled by Herne, a powerfully built, dark protector of the forest, the Horned God. It's easy for me to believe, as autumn broods in its mists and rainstorms, in-between its golden sun and clear, cool nights.
Autumn, even in its fiery glory, whispers: This will end soon. This will end in white, and cold, and you will huddle in your homes waiting for the world to renew again, as it has before.
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