Our meadow is spectacular this time of year - filled with wild asters and berries and butterflies. There are so many bees right now that if you're quiet, you can hear a steady humming in the background.
Lots of you have mentioned lately how fall is your favorite time of year. It's wonderful, no doubt about it. But I don't think I have a favorite season. If I picked fall as my favorite season, I'd feel like I was leaving out spring, and that week in late May when a different flower is bursting into bloom every day, or winter, and those days after a heavy snow when the sun comes out and the sky is deep blue and everything sparkles. Or summer. Every single day of summer, rain or shine, thunder or moonlight.
But if I'm ranking the months just by beauty, I think October's got to be the winner. We get soggy springs and slushy winters and parched summers now and again, but year in and year out, October is gorgeous. The leaves. The apples. The transition from the last vegetables from the garden to the first snowflake.
This is the view across the road from my house, where the geese take a rest and look longingly at the corn that will be harvested before too long. After it occurred to me that October is the prettiest month, I started thinking about how I'd rank all of the months by beauty. Here's what I came up with:
In any given year in Central New York, the placement of the bottom six months can vary pretty wildly. April needs to be split in two, because it's usually half horrible, half wonderful. And I feel bad about November, because I love it so, but it is not a pretty month. March, however, will always be at the bottom of my list. March is the month I wish I had a relative with a nice place somewhere in the South.