It’s happening. The colours are changing. They always do.

There’s a small window of time in late spring when everything is perfect. The leaves are a vibrant green, the flowers are blooming, the air is fresh and finally warming after the long and slow thaw from winter.

This brief moment often lasts for only a week or two. Yet it’s because of this fleeting period that I consider spring to be my favourite time of year. Even if it isn’t

It’s the hope — the anticipation of what’s around the corner — that lifts my soul.

Summer is my season. It’s when I am happiest, when I’m the most active, when I’m outside and soaking in the sunshine as much as my Scottish skin can handle.

Autumn is where I’m conflicted.

It’s arguably the most beautiful season. Although the colours of late spring might be more vibrant, those of autumn feel warmer, richer. They’re more comforting. And they last much longer than that flash of beauty in the spring.

Still, my internal conflict stems from the fact that I know what’s coming. Maybe the comforting hug of serenity that autumn brings is nature’s way of preparing us for what will inevitably follow.

But I’m not complaining, and I won’t waste my mental focus worrying about the future.

Instead, I’ll embrace this coming season while it lasts.

I will continue to gaze in awe at the trees whose branches hold thousands of mirrors reflecting the golden colour of the evening sun.