I am prone to hyperbole, but I have to admit, when the month of September arrives on the Maine coast, a certain poignant smell — a mixture of spruce fir, ocean, and wild flowers — pervades the landscape and seems to take my breath away.
It is the smell of fall, for this is the time to bundle up to watch a sunset and fire up the wood stove on a cold clear night. Now is the the time to walk through an early morning frost and feel the cold winds of change dance upon your face.
Penobscot Bay shimmers in the afternoon sun, as sleek sailboats and swift yachts run up and down her beautiful expanse, tacking past pine clad islands, rolling mountains, and rocky shores. Stores in town are quiet now, the bustle of July lost in the arrival of the ninth month. Children get up to go to school, while parents stand hand-in-hand with them, waiting for the bus to arrive.
The mood is festive, yet remains laced with some measure of nostalgia, for the warm days of summer are here no more. The temperatures dip into the 40s at night, and rise to the 60s during the day. The air is lazy, and the swaying sea grass of the town beach waves gracefully for only a few to see.
Everyone seems gone now. Everything seems different. Can it really be September already? It must be, and time does tend to fly while having fun. I dreamed of skiing the other night, and awoke to a freezing-cold bedroom. I thought for a few minutes about winter and the approaching snow, then nodded off back to sleep. Who am I but a small figure, enveloped in a world of brilliant nature, where nightly sunsets are must-see TV and the early morning light shimmers in that special way that only fall can bring.