We aren't all that far north, roughly the same latitude as Boston. An interesting thing happens each year around Labor Day, in our part of western Wyoming.
The nature of the sunlight changes, becomes less white and more of a cream on the color spectrum. Sure enough, there is the tiniest touch of cool in the still-pleasant air.
Not many leaves have turned yet, but their green is looking tired, almost ready to turn. All of the billions of 50 cent sized aspen leaves in our forest will soon become a pure, pale yellow and a week or so later begin to drift down. A bit later the mountain maple leaves will turn a pomegranate red. It's quite a show.
We haven't had a frost yet, I believe, but that will come probably before the month is out. De jure autumn comes in two weeks but this far, both north and above sea level, autumn has de facto arrived.
I like autumn, but I also associate its coming with melancholy, go figure. I'm not sure how liking and melancholy go together, but that's autumn for me. Perhaps I'm mourning the death of the Rocky Mountain summer, my favorite of the four seasons.
