I have an admission: Summer is not my favorite season.

While I can revel in the beauty of a pretty-in-pink hibiscus flower, thrill at the sight of dry lightning or a splash of mountain-cold water, the unrelenting heat bears down with a little too much weight for my taste. The word oppressive often associated with heat perfectly describes the inner deflation I feel as August arrives and summer cloaks us even more heavily. Here in Colorado, where strings of sunny days are lauded, I come to miss a day or two of cloud and rain, a cool breeze breaking the trance, reminding me that mystery still exists, that everything doesn’t have to be exposed, out in the open.

SO WHEN I START TO NOTICE TEENY, TINY SHIFTS IN THE AIR, THE LIGHT, THE SMELLS AROUND ME, I PERK UP. BECAUSE IT SIGNALS THAT SUMMER IS LEANING EVER-SO-SLIGHTLY TOWARD AUTUMN, AN ORIENTATION THAT ENCOURAGES A PARALLEL, SMALL SHIFT IN MY NERVOUS SYSTEM.

Even though the evidence is largely hidden beneath stretches of on-going heat and extended daylight hours, the hints are enough to flip a switch in my body, give my autonomic system a hard-to-describe feeling of relief. Permission to let down somewhat, not have to go the distance for too much longer.

In my mind’s eye, I see that short, holy stretch of track that is the crux of a relay race.

The space that cues one runner to reach back and prepare for the hand-off, the other to reach forward and entrust the baton to the steward of the next circuit around the track. It happens in a heartbeat, but for the runners attuned to that hand-off, time slows down, all senses trained on the minute details of the transfer so that it goes off without a hitch, allows for a smooth transition into the next lap.

THIS IS HOW I LIKE TO CONVERSE WITH THIS PARTICULAR CHANGE OF SEASON.

Instead of waiting to see the first touch of garnet in the trees or feel myself longing for that same shade of red in my wine glass, I hone my senses in the transfer zone. Marvel at the nearly-imperceptible shifts in the air around me, the ground beneath my feet, indicating that the hand-off has already begun.

In the last week, I’ve noticed particularly how the morning light casts different patterns, the sun’s move southward keeping it behind the backyard Honey Locust for an extra hour or so, its light sifting through the generous, lacy leaves so that, by the time it arrives on our kitchen floor, it isn’t set to sear my skin.

In early August, I started to see pops of an unlikely rose-umber color peering out from behind the green leaves of our Maple which, upon investigation, revealed that this wise tree was already beginning to press out its autumnal pods, perhaps as a show of prescience about the tone and tenor of the coming winter.

WE’VE ALSO STARTED TO HAVE WHAT I CALL COTTON CANDY LIGHT IN THE EVENINGS AS THE SUN SETS BEHIND THE MOUNTAINS. LIGHT THAT LIMNS THE CLOUDS WITH CORAL PINK AND NEON ORANGE, REFRACTS IN A WAY THAT MAKES EVERYTHING LOOK AS IF IT’S OVERLAID BY A FILM OF PEACH-PINK, A SURREAL AND MAGICAL SET CAST BY THE HEAVENS THAT LASTS A MERE NINETY SECONDS.

These are the moments that I’m drinking in like someone just in from a desert trek. I’m greedy and thirsty all at once for every little sign of Autumn, gathering them up like acorns even before acorns are starting to show themselves for the squirrels to gather. Perhaps it’s because this has been a particularly tough summer on many levels. Or because my body preconceives the joy of Autumn. Or maybe I’m just ready to eat more apples and remember how to turn on the oven.

Whatever the case, I’m all in.

For the rest of the month, while I’m eating sweet corn and peaches like they’re going out of style, I’ll be simultaneously opening my periphery to these first wisps of Fall.