I say I hate the seasons; well, all but one. What I really mean is that I just don’t believe in weather. Having been raised in California, I grew up thinking it was always 70 degrees and sunny outside. Unlike the Eskimo and their 50 words for snow, we Californians have just one word for all the seasons: Summer. Upon moving to Oregon several years back, I was inconveniently introduced to the other three. In my attempt to ignore them, I took up the habits of the animals I saw annually traversing the skies and seas of Oregon and began my own ritual of migrating south.

Today, however, I sit outside at a cafe watching fall blast in. Upon the sidewalk withered leaves chase each other in circles after having spent summer perched in the canopy above the sidewalks. Now they drop, selflessly allowing more light to reach the street below on these shorter days.

The leaves share stories of summer. Of old women ambling beneath them pulling squeaky grocery cars, of gaggles of girls in tank tops and short skirts giggling amongst themselves, of the ostracized smoker sneaking away from dinner, of the drunk vomiting upon the building wall, of the vendor hosing down the sidewalk, of the people lined up to eat breakfast at one of the streetside cafes.

But summer is over now, at least for many. Hopefully the squirrels have gathered the nuts they will need to weather the winter. Hopefully the people of Vancouver have gathered the sun they will need to weather the darkness of the next several months. And me, I sit lounging in the last of the summer sun, feeling the urgency of the wind reminding me it’s time to head south.
A last glance at the grassy median in front of me, and I see a dead leaf flipping back and forth in the wind as if waving goodbye. One last gesture before it dissolves into the earth to nourish the tree for another year of memories. A reminder that I had better get going if I am to continue chasing summer.