Maybe it’s because it was the first season I experienced, but I happen to think that fall in Minnesota is pretty much perfect.
Cool nights, perfect for snuggling. Warm days in which sun falling on skin is both tangible and welcome. Winds suddenly made manifest by their burdens. Scents of woodsmoke (even in the city) and crumbling leaves that make me sneeze.
Impermanent color. Death that is only dormancy. Sleepy schoolchildren waiting on the corner. First frosts and heavy frosts, with every blade of grass looking sharp enough to cut. Migrants overhead, the early birds and the late. Crows returning to claim the park. Squirrels shut securelly out of the eaves.
The return of shoes. Wrapping fingers around steaming mugs to ease the joint ache. Red ears and noses and long delays in pulling out the heavy coats. Brief awareness of every outdoor breath. Big, fluffy, transient snow.
Apples and squash and cranberries and baking and roasting. Proud pantries. Gunpowder on the wind. Butchery in the kitchen. A diet suddenly heavy in meat, making room in the freezer. Friends and freshly brewed beer and kittens in front of blazing oak fires.