The days around the solstice seem to flatten into a kind of sameness. In winter a curtain closes on light. A broad wash of gray flows across our lives, occasionally punctuated by clear skies and sudden cold. Then in mid-summer we experience the flatness of lingering light and heat. But around the equinox we come face-to-face with the dynamism of rapid change.

If possible, I like to paddle at these times. I feel especially drawn to the autumnal equinox. The water sits a few degrees above the temperature of the air and suggests a sense of safety that feels elusive in the spring. Autumn also reminds me of the season of my father’s death. I cannot help but think about him when chokecherries and red-twig dogwoods turn red and orange. But I also prize a paddle in early October because the sky can be wild. High, flying clouds sweep over the heavy, rain-laden clouds that stack up against the Mission Mountains and drop squalls of moisture through huge columns. As the clouds break over the crest and move toward the plains, the color of the lake changes moment to moment. Within a fifteen-minute span the lake can go from black to cobalt to green, from graphite to amber to pale blue.

I also sense the excitement of the birds. Geese form staging committees as they sense the migration to come. A double-crested cormorant with its long neck races one direction and suddenly returns. Then there are the waves. They shift directions as quickly as a swinging compass needle and may suddenly lay down as if for a nap, almost as if sensing a need for rest.

A few photos suggest the dynamism of this season, the improbable combination of rain and light,

the way mosses awaken,

and how goose down catches on a dry stem and flutters so fast that the camera cannot stop its quivering. Welcome to the season of change.