There are those for whom autumn is a season of sadness. They cling desperately to the green and the flowering. And then there are those of us who are autumn’s children. Those for whom the ever crisper weather portends a turning inward toward story, toward poetry, toward reflection and candlelight.

We listen to the patter of falling leaves like arcane music and rejoice at the bare branches against the long red sunset skies. Autumn children can tell you where the crows are flying. We listen in the dark for the return of the owl with all her secrets.