I wait with excitement for the first killing frost, when the biting bugs are finally quelled by nature's tender cull. The buzzing of cicadas and the katydids' ditty are heard no more. Up on the northern plains where my family is from, the buffalo berries at last become sweet enough to eat. Soon after, the songbirds quickly vanish, their music goes suddenly silent without fanfare or refrain. Instead, there is the somber trumpet from the formations of geese and swans passing far overhead as if to say, “see you next year.” They fly on to the milder winters of Texas, Oklahoma and of course Kansas, where I flew south all those seasons ago to find my favorite home I've ever known.

Growing up in North Dakota, fall arrives as swift as a shadow, but it can be the most magical of times. Every year, we hoped for that rare phenomenon called Indian summer, when the early cold spell of autumn is broken, and the days unexpectedly become a warm, golden haze of splendor. One could hear the crisp, crackling of footsteps on blankets of fallen leaves while the sweet song of summer still rang through the rustling trees. We relished donning short sleeves during those languid times, our new school shoes still stiff and squeaky clean. Even now those days seem frozen as Zeno's arrow: the rays of pure sunshine slowly drifting through the great cottonwoods like gossamer tendrils woven into the fabric of dreams, an ambrosia of sweet memory.

Of course, here in Kansas, things happen much slower, so much so that it's easy to miss the subtle shifting towards that which brings us comfort and cozy autumn joy. Despite its connotations, fall is a time for the living. It is for the hunt and the harvest, the hearth and the larder. We put our big quilts and comforters back on the beds to keep us warm at night, the ritual of bringing them out of storage has become a sentimental communion with the changing season.

Fall recasts our appetites too. It's the time for long simmered stews and soul touching soups, for baked pastas and homemade bread. It means a kitchen full of the warm smells of braise and the fiery spice of bubbling curries. Soon there will be roasts in the oven and chicken and dumplings slowly cooking on the stove.

Apart from rumination, it's also the time I reserve for reflection and introspection. A time to digest the pressing thoughts I've garnered over the course of the year.

I look forward to all the winter projects I have planned for future hours spent indoors, but I try not to let the daydreaming interfere with the current order of business. There is always a lengthy to-do list to finish before the snowy passions of winter overtake us all. These days, my mornings are filled with the feeling of clean awakenings, the fog gently lifting from the valleys of my mind.

In the dwindling evenings I reminisce. I remember cruising the river bottoms of my youth in a friend's old car, out to the pumpkin patch where we trudged through the sandy soil seeking that perfect gourd that reminded us of the harvest moon. We sat on top of the escarpment looking out at the great river flowing in perpetual motion through that beautiful land. The long gaze, our eyes as deep as wells, and the mortal sun hanging heavy in the evening sky.

I can feel the gentle passing of things. The inexorable turning of the wheel of the year, its burden of responsibility evaporating like muddy puddles on a gravel road.

I wait patiently but my ship never comes in. So instead, I swim out to meet it.

- Lee