It rained the day of the Tori concert (it's rained so much lately that they've finally turned the campus fountains on; now if only it'd stay cold...). I walked along the brick path to my ride's dorm, umbrella in hand, cold wind slapping my face with wintry fervor. Halfway there, I could see the buildings, looking Greek and quintessentially academic through the mist and tree branches. I was near a cluster of trees, my umbrella brushing the overhanging branches. They were thick with wet leaves, all bright yellow, and then wind came again and I was caught in a shower of what seemed like, if not pure gold, something pretty close to it. There was yellow everywhere, brightness on a gray day, falling and flying and whipping through the air. Gold under my feet and above my head and all around me, where I stood like an awkward Disney Pocahontas on my patch of brick in a chthonic canary-feather world. I held my umbrella aside and wished I were a true poetic soul.

I walked that way again the other day. The trees stretched skeletally out of crinkling brown leaf-carpets, no trace of yellow. There was no rain this time, though the sky was still gray, and I wondered how something like a season could change so fast without anyone noticing. Probably I anticipated another cascade of gold. I enjoyed the forever-falling sensation of leaves so much before that it never occurred to me the trees would eventually run out of them.

People can delude themselves all they like, but we don't notice much. To hop into Pocahontas mode again: seasons go and seasons come, steady as the beating drum. So steady that we almost don't notice them anymore. We put on a coat if it's cold and we scuttle through the wind to our next class, never bothering to savor the sting of the cold or the crunch of dying grass. It'll all happen again next year, so there's no reason to bother.

Adieu.