It’s a lazy Sunday. One of those early September days when the sun moves slowly and the sky hasn’t quite decided whether it’s done with summer yet. I was doing the usual, taking out the trash, scrubbing out corners of the house that are ignored on busy days, and trying to clean the week off my hands so I could step into the next one a little lighter. The kind of cleaning that isn’t just about wiping surfaces but about finding control in the little things. Breathing room. A fresh start.

Once the house was reset, I grabbed my empty Yeti bottles and made my way to Hunt Hall. Everyone knows that Hunt has the best water. We’re on a well system out here, so the water isn’t processed or filtered down to nothing, it’s cold, crisp, and tastes like it came straight from the heart of the mountain. And somehow, the sink at Hunt always hits better than the rest. Maybe it’s superstition. Maybe it’s just the way comfort attaches itself to places we return to often.

And that’s when I saw it.

The tree outside Hunt Hall. Tall and quiet and waiting, like it has been all summer. But today, the sun caught the very top of it, just right. And in that light, I noticed it: the first blush of autumn. Just the top leaves. Just a few. Stained in red and orange like someone had taken a match to the edge of summer.

It stopped me.

It shouldn’t have. I’ve lived through enough Septembers to know the signs. The crispness in the mornings, the way the light hits differently, the first leaf that crunches underfoot when you weren’t even looking for it. But there was something about seeing it here, outside Hunt, in the middle of a chore I’d done a hundred times, that made me still.

Maybe it was the contrast. The way the top leaves flared with color while the rest of the tree held onto green. Like it wasn’t ready to let go yet. Like it was trying to hold both seasons in its branches for just a little longer. And maybe I understood that more than I wanted to.

There’s a lot we carry into fall. The weight of what we didn’t say over the summer. The tiredness that lingers even after we sleep. The goodbyes we didn’t mean to say but ended up whispering anyway. And still, we move forward. Still, the days get shorter. Still, the leaves change whether we’re ready or not.

But this tree, catching the light, reminded me that change doesn’t always arrive all at once. Sometimes it begins at the edges. Quietly. Slowly. With just a few leaves turning red while the rest of you tries to stay the same.

I think that’s how I feel right now.

I’m not fully in fall yet. Not ready for the rush of endings or the turning of pages. But I’m starting to feel it. The shift. The Knowing. That something is coming, and I won’t be the same once it’s here.

So I stood there, for a moment, water bottles forgotten in my arms, and let myself just be. With the tree. With the change. With the soft, burning light of a lazy Sunday.

And maybe that’s enough.
To notice.
To pause.
To begin to let go.

Even if it’s just one leaf at a time.