We are once again in that space where it is neither fall nor winter, but a bit of each. The two seasons meet somewhere at some predetermined place, one flowing into the other and back again. It is a time when the clouds aren’t really sure what to do, when the cold holds back its grip, and the heavens ponder whether to release their moisture as rain, ice or the bits of white lace we call snow. This morning, it shimmed the street, then turned to slush as the air warmed slightly, just enough to start the melting that eventually changed the softened sounds of tires on asphalt to a slushy gurgle.

Things didn’t improve much as the day wore on. More rain fell, and the wind continued to whistle in the eaves and around these old windows, setting the bare branches of once flower-laden shrubs in motion. Water kept to horizontal paths as it slid off roofs and along gutters, and the slush deepened in puddles and sidewalk gullies all along the street. We have once again left the most colorful time of the calendar year behind, and now comes the moodiness of late fall and early winter, the early sunsets, the long dark nights and the merciless cold.

Most weather events don’t occur spontaneously. A whole industry has been built around being able to predict what path a certain storm will take and how and when it will affect most of us. Even during the 1800s, when severe blizzards instantly darkened the landscape of the Great Plains, there were those who knew of their impending arrival, and it was only the lack of communication that precluded their being able to warn those who would be most affected by them. Back then, wind speeds and directions played primary roles in predicting the weather. And while they still do today, additional and much more highly-refined data comes into play with meteorologists charting possible paths and deducing probabilities from thousands of pieces of information fed to them daily from points across the globe.

In essence, what we are provided with now are days ”“ and even weeks ”“ to prepare for storms or severe cold, a time during which we stockpile provisions, seal roof leaks and bring enough wood inside to last us for the duration of whatever it is that nature will be sending our way in the form of whirling winds, extreme temperatures and relentless precipitation. And always, there are the lulls between these events, spaces of time during which we gradually forget the last onslaught as well as the certainty that another will come along eventually. Because this is the way of things, of air masses colliding, of moisture-laden clouds finally giving up their massive loads of rain or sleet or snow, and of frigid northerly winds putting their own mark in January on what might otherwise be at any other time of year nothing more than an innocent innocuous rain shower.

And so we are once more, it appears, in one of those lulls, this one between autumn and winter, when summer is again a memory and fall will soon be, too. It is a time during which winter prepares her store of surprises, builds up her reserves of snow and ice and sleet, and then sits back waiting for nature to signal their release. We’ve already had our first taste of it, and there is more yet to come that will compel us to once again turn inwardly and to the nearer more immediate concerns of staying warm enough and sustaining ourselves through power outages, episodes of frozen pipes, ice-jammed roof gutters and slippery roads.

Imagine if nature were unkind and gave us no warning, dropping her surprises upon us unannounced and unprepared for. Such is not the case, for even at her most extreme, she is the same soft-spoken entity who speaks to us through the hushed snowfall and the smooth sound of rain drops on leaves.

“Be ready,” she whispers. “Be ready.”

— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Lyman, who enjoys exploring the woods of southern Maine, can be reached via email at rachell1950@metrocast.net.