This might be my absolute favourite time of the year. Really the Americans are delusional (with all due respect) in calling this "fall" when it's so clearly an ascension. A climb into one's own skin, into layers of clothing, into routine and those sparkling mornings.
Finally it's cold enough to sink into jumpers and scarves and fingerless gloves. There's a quiet glory to these high winds and sharp sunrises and cold damp noses that can be pressed against pale pink cheeks.
I knit and brew endless cups of tea and consume volumes of poetry, because how else should one while away the cooling days of late September?