The song of the seasons

The seasons were changing. She could feel the nip in the air, ever so slight, that heralded the beginning of Fall. It was Fall when she first set foot in this country, all those years ago. Most people she spoke to liked Fall. They said they liked the colors - the slow change of the falling leaves as they turned from parrot green to sunflower yellow to russet red and then fell, chocolate brown. Lifeless. But what she liked was the crunching of the leaves beneath her feet when she walked among the trees. She liked the way they dropped down suddenly, making her let out a surprised breath. She liked the paper-like noise and the softness of the ground beneath the spread of brown. There was no Fall back in India. No real color-changing of the leaves, at least not in the metropolises she was used to. Delhi of course had a pseudo-Fall - the weather used to have that by-now-familiar nip in September and October, but that was it.

Soon, winter would come. It would be cold and gloomy for days on end. But winter here also meant Christmas was approaching. She loved Christmas, and the fairyland lights strung up everywhere, making her world seem like a dream. She even liked the snow, though it meant that heater of hers would need turning on after all those months of silence. Snow wasn't always pretty though - she liked the drip-drip-drop flakes but she disliked the dirty slush - again in the cities mainly. She sighed. The cities - those agglomerations of people, multitudes and multitudes of them. She hated them and loved their throbbing pulses at the same time.

She moved on to spring....

Just then, the doorbell rang, its familiar sing-song tone announcing his arrival. He was home. She shook herself out of her reverie, gave one last longing look at the ant-people scurrying about 40 floors below her and slid the window shut.