Underfoot, the muted crunch; overhead, the rustle of leaves waiting to dry and drop.

It's not even summer and I'm fantasizing about fall, I can't get the smell of the woods out of my nose and the comfort of wearing layers out of my head. It can't come soon enough, the time when I'll be able to look at a 10 day weather forecast and not see a monotonous little string of flaming yellow suns with the helpful UV index of 10+ extreme.

Only one more cycle of the seasons and I'll move, north and to the east. Someplace where water can be consumed from the tap, where rivers contain water, where it's necessary to wear long sleeved shirts in September.

This state is a dusty place where I can look up, out, and see forever. The rocks and cacti are low and replace the meadows. It is empty, lonely, and hot. I have learned what it is like to be someplace completely different, and I am ready to go back to what is comfortable. I can't spend another autumn without the trees, I can't watch another year pass without my surroundings aging and changing with me.

Log in or registerto write something here or to contact authors.