the transition of seasons, blurred and hushed and hurried, were a startling, beautiful thing. the change never quite happened at the same time, always distinct, unknown, stunning.
you could sit back and observe it all, the way the sky darkened to a perpetual grey, much like the sharp lead of a pencil, and enormous clouds, thick and opaque, overtook the dreary expanse—
—above you in the oncoming winter. the trees would wilt, shedding the brilliant burnt orange of their leaves, standing tall yet bare for all to see.
an encompassing blanket of white would glimmer in the corners of your eyes, teasing, as it fell in soft sheets by your feet.
they say that winter is when everything is dormant, very close to death, yet you’ve never quite felt so alive.
and, as it passes, slow and prolonged, the birth of spring comes to be, gradual and so very sweet. with it comes the blessed blossoming of blushed buds, lightly unfurling to expose the redness—
—of their petals. the trees shutter back to life, their bark growing rough and heavy: tender leaves, dark and verdant, sprout amongst hard branches.
if you listen closely, you may even hear the high, distinct whistle of flighty birds, might see them flit across a clear, rosy sky.
soon enough, the cool spring traces a path for the overwhelming warmth of summer, where the skies are royally azure and entirely cloudless.
children settle across grass vivid green, allowing the sharp rays of the sun to melt into their skin. thin sweat lingers on the back of your neck, and your gauzy shirt catches frequently on—
—damp skin. by now, the trees are at their heyday, grand and seemingly solid, though you know better.
you know, as soon as the harsher yet more supple reality of fall sweeps by, they will bow at the waist, rendered weak once again.
summer quiets to something far more muted, the comfortable occurrence of autumn. the trees shed their leaves, now tinted in shades of red and orange and yellow, much like over-steeped tea.
the crushed leaves decorate sidewalks, piled in enormous quantities on front yards, splendidly mild. children trade their shorts for cumbersome woollen coats—
—and scratchy knitted hats, noses stained scarlet over cashmere scarfs. the skies have dulled from marvellous coral to subdued silver.
and so comes the winter, the first full circle, though certainly not the last. it’s strange and peculiar and exciting, this hasty shift between environments, and how much they affect you.