Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.

A few days ago I walked along the edge of the lake and was treated to the crunch and rustle of leaves with each step I made. The acoustics of this season are different and all sounds, no matter how hushed, are as crisp as autumn air.

Autumn arrives in the early morning, but spring at the close of a winter day.

Change is a measure of time and, in the autumn, time seems speeded up. What was is not and never again will be; what is is change. For man, autumn is a time of harvest, of gathering together. For nature, it is a time of sowing, of scattering abroad.

A wind has blown the rain away and blown the sky away and all the leaves away, and the trees stand. I think, I too, have known autumn too long.

Autumn is a season followed immediately by looking forward to spring

Fall is my favorite season in Los Angeles, watching the birds change color and fall from the trees.

Autumn leaves shower like gold, like rainbows, as the winds of change begin to blow, signaling the later days of autumn.

The autumn always gets me badly, as it breaks into colours. I want to go south, where there is no autumn, where the cold doesn’t crouch over one like a snow-leopard waiting to pounce.

Bittersweet October. The mellow, messy, leaf-kicking, perfect pause between the opposing miseries of summer and winter.