The smell of autumn,
Falling leaves spreading their scent through the air,
makes me long for Austria.
For some reason, the warm musk of woods and wet leaves reminds me of the dirt path I biked down. The path on which my sister and I sung on the top of our lungs, on which the crunch of gravel beneath the wheels acted as the background for our melody.
The golden leaves blanketing the mountains makes me wish for the wide open fields which I passed, riding along mountains far across the sea.
I miss the flowers, the lake. The tall grass which shielded the boats from view, until you stepped right up to the rocky shore.
And if I sit still enough, I can almost hear
the mountains, calling gently and echoing from
from the Swiss Alps to my own Blue Ridge
hills. And in that moment,
I wish for nothing more,
than to wander.
"There is something in October
sets the gypsy blood astir;
We must rise and follow her,
When from every hill of flame
She calls and calls each vagabond by name."
-Bliss Carman
