By Amanda Cleary Eastep

You know that perfect fall day.

Where the cool lays across your cheeks like a damp cloth, and the setting sun is a bullet of warmth above your right eye.

You walk through freshly mown grass, speckled with decimated leaves that fell onto the dregs of summer, too soon to join the army of them that will descend in another two weeks.

Some trees are like brushes dipped in red but miserly holding onto green.

This is a favorite season for many; but for those of us tired of Chicago winters like last year’s, it’s a harbinger of DOOM.

It is called fall for a reason. The high def colors are fleeting, like a wedding day.

Personally, I’m holding on to the squirrels’ tails. Just figuratively, of course. So far, their tails aren’t all that furry, which I take as a sign of a “milder” winter, no matter what the Farmer’s Almanac predicts.

In the spirit of that denial optimism, I’m trying to enjoy every minute of the season beyond the pretty colors. I am not viewing my fading garden with a sad heart, but appreciating the beauty in gradual change.

In the disappearance of the hummingbird and the anticipation of the dark-eyed junco…

In my breath hanging in the morning air like a thought cloud…

In dying things that bequeath a promise of resurrection…