The way I put it earlier today, while we were out at breakfast at one of our favourite restaurants, it's pouring with drizzle. There's low cloud draped in trees, the sky is pearl gray and low low low, the leaves of my rhododendrons are glistening with damp, there are wet leaves piled in drifts by the side of the roads and a last brave bright few cling to the increasingly bare branches. It's raining, and it's October, and fall is in the air, and I can smell winter coming. To some such weather might herald depression, or a sign that hibernation is an imminent and inevitable probability. Me, it makes me feel weirdly happy and alive, full of dreams and stories, the promise of firelight and mulled wine and early cold nights with white winter stars sharp and vividly bright in black velvet skies.
Winter is coming. The crisp cool days when your breath comes out in a puff of white cloud, when the air nips at your cheeks and gloveless fingers, with snow, if we're lucky, for a few blessed glorious days when I can sit by the window with a cup of hot chocolate and watch the white flakes fall silent and beautiful and limn the dark cedars with light.
Winter is coming. The smell of damp wool and of Christmas trees. The taste of cranberries and turkey and hot soups and eggnog. The bare branches sharp against the sky, as if drawn by ink-pen on the winter blue. The sound of wind in the cedars, or the white silence of snow.
Winter is coming.