When seasons change...
I like to see it in the color of the marsh grass. I like to feel it on my face in the warmth or coolness of the suns last rays. I want to smell it in the breeze, coming off the waterway.
When seasons change, I like to think of the best of what is coming up. The dead, brown grass that slowly gets replaced by small green shoots come March, more and more until the brown is gone and only the green can be seen as if creating its own sea on the edge of the water.
When seasons change, I like to see the sky change and the sunset reflect off the water the way it never does in the summer, pink and pinker and pinkest, outdoing itself in a blaze of glory.
When seasons change, I like to see how many morning glories have made their way back up onto the dock, deep purple, and only for the lucky early risers to enjoy.
When seasons change, I like to soak it up, because before I know the season is already changing again.