Well, it's about that time of year, I guess. The wind blowing through Manhattan's man-made canyons has had a slightly cooler bent the last few days - a reminder that although fall isn't quite in the air yet, it will still come along soon enough. That leggings and cardigans and scarves will start adorning the still-sunglasses-clad throngs. That leaves will turn, and fall, and crush to bits under our millions of feet. I know there's still a month of true summer before us, but there was a little something, a switch of a sort, that flipped in my head: where suddenly I realized how liking and enjoying seasons works. Winter is long and cold, and pushes you towards spring. Spring is flirty with warmth and flowers, promising at the beauty of summer. Summer is full and hot and humid, urging you to long for cooler days. And fall is cool and crisp, prepping you for the excitement of snow and winter. I'll be ready for fall, once it gets here. I won't miss summer too horribly, even though it's my favorite season (New York might actually change my mind on that one, though).
Despite the reminder/promise of fall, this summer morning was pretty darn near perfect. It felt breezy and warm and rife with relaxation. It said, "Come spend time with me. Can't you feel the ocean in my breath? Don't you want views of the water and the feeling of sand and surf beneath your feet?" Sadly, work called to me as well, and I decided that someone else would have to enjoy this summer day in my stead.