I love the start of autumn.

I love the way we get swept along by colour, stunned and surprised, as if seeing it for the first time.

I love the way the turning of the colours holds time: not just the knowledge of the winter ahead but the promise first of days remembered, kicking leaves, watching the mist rise from a forest floor, hunting for conkers, taking photograph after photograph of the colour of the trees.

We look at the colour. We see time.

And I love the way we strange imperfect humans can process all of that: the colour, the wonder, the poetry, the remembrance and the looking forward.

I love that we can hold both the awareness of time passing and the rejoicing in the present moment, all in that one breath when we stop and say:


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