The wind in the trees at night in October sounds like all the silent wishes of dreams, rushing to be first in line.
Autumn feels like putting a lid on a box of memories, packing away warm weather clothes in trade for sweaters and scarves. It has a newness in its own right, too, but only first by closing the chapter that was Summer. It carries an early morning mist and a nascent darkness.
The seasonal shift invites nostalgia, but more than that— invites a curiosity of the new year, always arriving both too quickly and too late, or in a slumber state wherein one can’t rightly grasp it.
Some of my favorite parts of pumpkin season: the jeweled glow of early evening windows as I walk past row houses and brownstones; sidewalks and steps carpeted in bright-gold leaves; Japanese maples in full, rich blood tones.
Short-lived slices of beauty that tease and tense before the long grey of winter in the city. Always I feel a love-hate at this transition.
e daggar art: THE MUSEUM 