The Symphony of Autumn

Autumn as a four-part composition: bright, slow, dancing, and triumphant before the silence of winter

Many words have been written about the seasonal changes of colour in the countries blessed with the right climate. These texts usually focus on the first signs of fall, when green begins to mingle with gold, or on the bright red leaves of New England’s maples. These are, without doubt, the highlights: the vivid, irresistible markers of transformation, accompanied by cooler air and shorter days. This text isn’t about them.

In the last few days, I’ve been blessed with the chance to slow down and watch the city change yet again. The foliage is everything at once: fully green bushes and trees (holly, larch, chestnut), some still dotted with blossoms or berries; translucent yellows of poplar, hickory, and gingko that seem to glow brighter than the sun; and the reds, pinks, and oranges of sumac, Japanese maple, and sweetgum. To me, these changes are inherently musical — as complex and structured as a great symphony.

The first fast movement of the sonata is that sudden hit of new colour that stands out in the sea of steady, agreeable green. You recognise it immediately — the change has arrived, and yet it takes you by surprise. Of course, you knew it was coming, but still, those first few notes, those first few leaves, always strike you with fresh energy and emotion. After that, you feel attuned, connected, and engaged, fully embracing the transformation. And then, the second slow movement begins, lulling you into its lyrical rhythm. This is when you grow accustomed to the change, and the new season truly begins. Familiar habits return — the desire to create warmth and comfort, the pleasure of settling in.

As the inevitable rains start, the pace of the season accelerates. Leaves are carried down by wind and water, the trees surrendering to hibernation. This is the minuet or scherzo — the third part of the classical symphony — that feels like a dance. Expressive and bright, this passage doesn’t last long but serves as a bridge between the slow, contemplative second movement and the powerful finale. And then, the crescendo arrives.

I believe we’re now entering this fast, triumphant finale — the part that takes you by storm with its energy and might. Many love the crescendos most, as they draw together melodies from the earlier parts and concentrate them into one overwhelming surge. They quicken your heartbeat, make your eyes shine brighter, and bring the longing of catharsis toward a satisfying close. This is exactly what I’ve been feeling in the past few days, observing the nature around me. The translucent, radiant, and commanding colours of these last weeks of autumn fill us with bright emotion and renewed strength — a reserve of beauty to carry into the bleaker winter days ahead.

This is the power of autumn. It’s what makes it my favourite season, despite the obvious pleasures of spring and the abundance of summer. The chance to be awed isn’t something to take lightly. Try it while it lasts. This is the power of autumn — a season of music, movement, and awe.