A little colder now, and the trees know it

The air nipped at me this morning. Not a bite, just that small, curious tap on the shoulder that says, Here it comes. I stepped outside with my mug and watched a thin veil of breath drift ahead of me like a shy ghost. The neighborhood birds felt it too; their calls were brisk, no-nonsense, as if they had errands.

The trees have started their slow retreat into winter colors. Not the fireburst of peak autumn anymore, but the quieter palette. Russet edges. Cinnamon browns. Golds sinking into umber. Each leaf looks like it is storing some last secret of warmth before letting go. Even the evergreens seem to be standing straighter, bracing for the season shift.

Walking the greenway, I noticed how the sunlight comes in at a different angle now, brushing everything with a steeper, paler glow. The mountains around Roanoke seemed half-dreaming under it, wrapped in those soft grays and dusty blues that show up when the year is winding down. Any day now, the morning fog will start clinging to the ridges like a blanket that refuses to be folded.

There’s a comfort in this little chill. A reminder that the world is always turning the page, even when I’m moving slow. I like that feeling of putting hands in pockets, tugging the hoodie a little tighter, listening to the leaves skitter across the pavement like tiny travelers on their own migration.

Winter is close enough to smell on the wind. Not here yet, but leaning in. Whispering. And I find myself ready for it, or as ready as anyone ever is. Let the cold come gently, like this. Let it arrive with soft footsteps and silver mornings. I’ll meet it on the porch with a warm cup and a grateful sigh.