Autumn’s Warning

In early November’s soft, diffused light, I opened my eyes to the clarity of winter’s first whisper. The ground outside lay under a crystalline shroud, each blade of grass ensconced in its own icy casing. Through the pane, the sun, not yet robbed of all its warmth, cast a pale, benevolent glow over this frozen tableau, igniting tiny fires in each frosty jewel.

I lay there, ensnared in the cocoon of my bed, thinking of the armory required for the coming months — woolens wrapped around necks, the snug embrace of beanies, and the feet encased in the loving leather of well-worn boots. The palette of my meals turned decidedly autumnal: bright orange squashes, the steam rising from a bowl of pumpkin soup like a spirit released into the chill. Hot cocoa became a nightly ritual, and each sips a bulwark against the creeping cold.

Gone were the languid days of summer when bare feet were enough to feel grounded and connected to the Earth. Now, I would find solace in the rhythm of clicking needles, the creation of socks not just for warmth but as an act of defiance against the biting air.

Yet, once a comfort in its predictability, this seasonal shift now bears the weight of unease. My garden, that verdant slice of Eden, has whispered the secrets of change — unseasonal blooms, birds’ erratic migrations, and insects that linger too long into the fall. The world outside my window plays the same old tune, but now it is in a different key.

There is a dissonance, a static of uncertainty that hums beneath the surface of…