As may now be painfully apparent, the warm months are over. While the odd lack of snow for this time of year paired with the as of yet non-Arctic temperatures might seem to imply an eternal autumn, it isn't to be. Already, the trees reach from the earth like frostbitten hands, clawing at the overcast sky. Students move from class to class to the library, doing everything they can to forage what points are left to ensure their grades survive. Similarly, the occasional squirrel or bird can be seen gathering what little extra food there is left, their finals week fast approaching in the form of snow cover. It's this time of year, this period of anticipation, that is one of my favorite. I love the snow and the cold, it's fun to go out into, but when I decide that I would rather stay inside, nobody tells me I need to get out more. The beauty of the snow covered landscape is always a privilege to behold, but we aren't there yet. We're collectively waiting, appreciating what time with the grass we have left before it disappears underneath the snow. This brief window of time when 40 degrees on the thermometer is simultaneously enthralling and disappointing ("at least it isn't 20 degrees like it was last year!" Vs. "it was 60 out only a month ago "). It's a unique experience, or as unique as a climate can be. Further north, snow and freezing temperatures are a guarantee at this time of the year, anything else is a fluke. Far enough south, snow is as much a myth as a productive congress of the tooth fairy. It's only on our latitude (as far as I have experienced) that this waiting game, a staring match with winter, occurs.
I love it, even if we always blink first.
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