She loves the fall. She loves it for the wind, for the cool gusts that blow her hair into her face and whip the clouds into horsesâ tails, that shake the leaves off the tree and make the wildflowers dance in the breeze. She loves it for the clear, blue sky, how it feels like the high ceiling of a grand castle, a vast sea of cobalt that stretches on and on and on. She loves it for the night, when the air chills and the moon emerges and the stars hang in the sky like a rich blue-black tapestry filled with small pinpricks of light, almost close enough to reach out and touch. She loves it for the smell of the ripe wild grapes, their fragrance intoxicating as they dangle, round and perfect and just brushed with the seasonâs first frost, on the long, curling grapevine that creeps up the oak tree. She loves it for the harvest, for the round, green pears wet with morning dew, for the crisp, honey sweet apples and the flaming pumpkins large as wheelbarrows. She loves it for the dragonflies that flit about on warm afternoons, soaking up the sunshine as their wings flash and glitter; she loves it for the monarchs on the spotted joe-pye-weed, opening and closing their wings gently as they rest before their journey south; she loves it for the ladybugs that emerge in droves, crawling on her hand and clad in ruby and tangerine and beautiful amber gold. She loves it for the hawk who flies high above her, soaring endlessly on steady wings as the drafts of cool fall breezes ruffle its warm brown coverts, letting out a piercing shriek that hangs forever in the air, like the thrill she always feels as she watches it. She loves it for the fox in the meadow that comes out when the day wanes and evening comes, rustling the tall grass as it disappears with a flick of its thick, bushy tail, a smear of brown in the golden field. She loves it for the hikes into the mountain, the tranquility of the leaf strewn trail as she climbs higher, higher, higher still, and the view from the top when she feels like she is the only person in the world. She loves it for the leaves and the colors they turn as the weather grows cool, as though they have been painted with an artistâs brush dipped in fire, filled with dark browns and sunny yellows, flaming scarlets and tiger oranges, and the feeling that theyâve done it just for her, just so she can stand in wonder and drink it all in. She loves it for the last burst of fall flowers, for the hillsides covered in purple asters and yellow goldenrods, for the old stone bridge engulfed by red honeysuckle and palatinate purple pokeweed, as though they have put all their energy into this moment, this wonderful burst of sight and smell. She loves it for the way the wheat turns golden yellow and rustles when she walks through it and the hum of the tractor as it treads slowly through the dirt and the vibrancy of the hills and the twisting vines turning brown and gold and the red-purple grass and the dancing white wildflowers, and for all the vivid colors and scents and sounds that intoxicate her with their beauty.
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