March may come in like a lion, but there’s at least a tiger roaring late each autumn, as we saw earlier this week.
The winds that wash away winter and bring us spring have their fall counterparts. They have equal force, but get less good press. The lack of song and poetry about this time of year probably stems from our displeasure with the icy blasts that fold up the last hardy flowers, kill most things green and send birds scurrying southward.
If only they would blow away all those falling leaves.