Autumn slept in late along Colorado’s Front Range, but it woke suddenly this morning, its hasty gusts swirling and scattering recently raked leaves.
The sky faded from blue to gray in seeming time-lapse. The mercury in the thermometers dropped as if transmogrified to lead, sinking more than 40 degrees in six hours.
A battalion of clouds rolled in, firing first a brief volley of frigid rain, then unleashing a hectic barrage of snow that lingered into the early evening. The huskies whined and pressed their noses to the window, anxious to join the fray.
But the fall storm proved mostly bluster, a mere foreshadowing of winter. One could not even mold a snowball to launch at the modern carpetbaggers already complaining of the cold.
Anne Bradstreet, from a meditation both divine and moral: “If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant: if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome.”