And so it ends

We didn't need a calendar to tell us summer is over. A few weeks ago, summer took off like a snowbird who had overstayed her welcome. What with the evening chill, the torrents of yellow leaves cascading past our windows, I think most Alaskans realized that it was time to say our own private goodbyes: maybe a final summer barbecue a last foray outside in shorts.

To the man I saw two days ago wearing a tank top and shorts near my local Wal-Mart: Party'’s over, buddy. Better put those in mothballs until next year.

But I welcome fall. It'’s crisp but not cold and full of anticipation. I don'’t mind the mist and rain, because while it'’s still unfrozen, we don'’t have to shovel it. I don'’t mind the chill, because I can still retrieve the morning paper (when I remember to get it) in my slippers. I don'’t yet need boots or spikes to brave the driveway.

A few nights ago, I was milling around the living room past midnight. I left the bedroom to read without disturbing Alan. I found myself confounded by the brightness of the room. In these days of astronomical energy prices, we make sure to turn off every light before going to bed. I cast about unable to find an offending illuminated bulb and soon realized that the moon was throwing a beam bright enough to read by through a crack in the curtains.

I peered through the chink, noticing that one of the trees in our yard had already shed most of its leaves. The craggy tips of a bough were silhouetted against the moon like a wizened hand robbed of its gold and upturned in supplication. But soon enough it will be filled with sugar-snow and hung with candy icicles. The old tree'’s limbs will groan and bow under the opulence of winter'’s feast.