“How did it get so late so soon?” — Dr. Seuss

And so it goes, and I’d be hard-pressed to decide just where it officially begins, this gradual progression of the seasons, that goes from white to green to brown, then back to white again. Does it start with winter, when all, as we remember it, is cryogenically preserved to give us something to look forward to after a season of sealing our houses against the cold and praying continuously for a thaw? Or does it start with the unfurling of the first hardy seedlings and corms that push their way sometimes through frozen ground and snow to remind us that they’re still there? Is it summer’s lofty magnificence that extends even into nights illuminated by the glow of a full moon or that of lightning bugs cavorting in the warm air? Or does fall start the ball rolling with its tsunami of colors too breathtaking to adequately qualify?

Or should it matter at all?

If we go back far enough in the history of the planet, it took eons for things to cool down enough to allow life to proliferate in the oceans and on the land. In some parts of the world, winter still dominates, while in others, it seems as though it is always summer. It all has to do with where the sun is in relationship to the Earth’s surface, with temperature fluctuations, atmospheric moisture and light all having their own say in the matter. Ice dominates the Arctic for most of the year, while tropical air is the norm at or near the equator and southward. And here, at a midway point between the two, we are privy to what happens when all of life is subjected to mild weather for most of the year and cold weather for the rest. Deciduous trees shed while woodland creatures grow denser coats and forage farther for what little food there is.

It seems like just yesterday that the pond I see from my window was liquid, rippling whichever way the wind was blowing, scintillating in the sunlight, and on its surface, geese bobbing, oblivious to a new chill that defied the sunlight. And it’s not that long ago, a few weeks actually, when two does emerged early from the woods onto the dirt road, on the run from hunters who had gathered before sunup.

Just a few days ago, the sun was bright for a while in a cloudless sky, supplying a backdrop for dried oak leaves clinging tenaciously to their branches and pine boughs swaying in a light wind. The remains of a recent light dusting of snow were gone from the porch, and it was almost impossible to imagine what the next few months will be like. But as the day progressed, clouds moved in announcing and impending snowfall, so it won’t be long now until I see what winter has in store for us this year.

It’s a safe bet that, as in the past, we will once again have our share of snow, subzero temperatures, ice and wind. This is Maine, after all, a part of the world that celebrates each season in its glorious, distinct identity. And nature has a way, doesn’t she, of making us forget each hand we’re dealt by providing a mild respite between the storms, a few mild days that seem almost spring-like, during which we dupe ourselves into thinking that winter is over, that it won’t snow anymore, and when we are likely to hear repeated the age-old wish, “If only winter were always like this!”

If only.

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