In Hobart, autumn comes sometime in late March or even April. You will find yourself driving the southern outlet to Kingston and discover the poplars are yellow and orange and prematurely red and purple. Or you realise the flurry of leaves kicked up walking through St David’s Park. It is autumn.
In the early mornings and in the evenings, when it is most still, the change of season seeps over me, and I can feel time.
After life in the tropics, the shifts during the Hobart year were a novelty to me. I respect these milestones now and enjoy the movements as I move with them, as my life changes, shifts in mood, decisions, actions, life being lived.
In my day to day, I look out my kitchen and count the seasons in my walnut tree. Soon my tree will be skeletal again and in sympathy I will don more clothes. After the winter, my hope for warmth and summer dresses short around my legs, over the tree will emerge bright green buds. Pop. Pop. Pop.
But today I see the hard encased nuts, crack, crack, crack out from their green shell homes. One step closer to the ground, preparing to drop, before they are followed by the leaves.