First day of Autumn

The sky is a seamless light-grey overcast without feature, so luminous that the south side of the street is as bright as the north, and one's shadow is only a smudge directly underfoot. The temperature is still relatively high, but there is a cool and moist breeze blowing through the streets that speaks of mist and falling leaves. Every once in a while a whiff of combustion drifts past: either a coal fire or somebody burning off garden rubbish, perhaps vine leaves and tendrils: there are vineyards on hillsides throughout the city, even right downtown three blocks from the train station; and the hillsides here in the western valley are spotted with Schrebergärten.

It's been a long and hot summer, and I am glad of the change of season (by the proudly Canadian, sadly missed Matthew Good Band, another song that often gets put on repeat for half an hour at a time.)

I have always felt that Autumn was the true start of the year, the peak of the last hill of the rollercoaster ride as it were: a time to pause for breath, square one's shoulders and dive down into work again. Even though I've been self-employed for ten years now, able to take holidays whenever I want, I still somehow maintain this feeling that summer is to the year as Sunday is to the week. September is all Monday for me (and in contrast to Brenda Ann Spencer, I love Mondays).

Given my druthers (does anyone but my father still say that?) I would celebrate New Year's Day on the new moon closest to the autumnal equinox. (I'm in good company there: according to the Wikipedia, "Autumnal Equinox Day is an official national holiday in Japan, and is spent visiting family graves, and holding family reunions.")