I have concluded it is my favorite season. The air has a certain bite to it in the morning and evening, and when one stands in the shade, you naturally want to migrate to the sunlight. I feel alive, in the chill.
It is, more than spring, the season of change. In the winter, you can look out at the landscape and imagine the lushness added to the ever-present evergreens.
In the fall, it looks like approaching death. The death of green, the riot of color hallmarking the flood of broadleaves, the days growing shorter: these things are celebration of the cycle eternal, the promise that all good things end, but the end, like the beginning, is transitory.
In the fall, when there is a sunny day, suddenly that day seems precious. Plans change. We happily walk the dog, the park beckons and we avoid the shade. We eschew the dim, because soon, we will have no choice but to live under cloudy skies under the damp and cold of winter.
Fall is the herald and the messenger, but in the rush of to and fro before winter sets in, fall gives you a certain perspective. I love it.