(Images by Maria Falvey, as well)

As others in faraway places open long forgotten closets and boxes in search of a warm sweater to block a chill, I mark the passing of the season each time the silence is broken by the high-pitched whine of a snow machine.

As seasonal gourds in hues of burnt orange flood the markets, and sales of cloves and cinnamon skyrocket in other places, I note the absence of sea birds and the return of the Arctic fox.

As nandina and firethorn burst into color with bright berries and the trees change into their party clothes hundreds of miles south, I watch the tundra and lagoon become a landscape of deep grey and rich browns peppered with the purest white.

This is autumn beneath Ursa Major.