Like the final warm October day, we can’t know it’s the last of the season.

The sunrise crawls upward, lower in the sky than yesterday’s. Steam rises from the cold river.

Water absorbs shadows of cottonwood trunks. Silhouettes of yellow leaves brighten the morning.

If we’re lucky, we have a hundred long, sunny days before winter.

But we never are. And we never do.

“This might be it for the nice weather this season.” I’ll see you around the block either way.

Storms inbound; should we be at peace with the coming torments?

Storms inbound; fundamentally it’s a part of what makes this place, this place.

Storms inbound; we never know what they might change.

“The ensemble shows an upper-level disturbance in the Gulf,” that’s how you might bring it up.

“The European model says four inches of water this week…and next.”

“Oooh baby,” things change quickly with each storm, especially this time of year.

You reveled in the anticipation and aftermath of each storm. Now we reel from the unexpected.

It always is just a matter of time. And sometimes luck.

Familiar paths – under well-travelled feet.

Familiar paths – shared and savored.

(Un) Familiar paths – always an adventure.

With this storm the season has turned, and the path looms unfamiliar.

The sun is shining for now. I guess it is nearly April.