And then the light was gone.

Or, so it seemed on Sunday, November 2 when sunset fell one hour sooner and evening rose in its place.

No matter how well prepared I am—it’s been on my calendar for a month and on my mind since the leaves began to turn in their greens for a new suit of clothes that fits—it catches me slightly off guard.

Not the fact it.

But the impact of it.

And I see and feel the passing of the light with melancholy eyes.
The tide of light rolling back out to sea until next spring seems far more pronounced to me than just an hour earlier. There is not much light to wade in far sooner than I would like.

Even a short walk through the woods after I get home from work is now out of the question. I am left only with Saturdays and Sundays. And, oh yes, I shall hunt the light on Sundays, both in and out of State Forests and State Parks, following my shadow as it lengthens in the afternoons and then turning suddenly to make sure the light has not turned away from me entirely.

But the light never will abandon us.

Not me.

Not you.

Not any of us.

Darkness may seem to have gained an edge, the upper hand, but that is merely a seasonal illusion. So, too, is the dominance of darkness striding toward us in December—merely a season’s sleight-of-hand.

Spring will be sprung, pulling its own rabbit out of the hat in March, no matter how much snowy coldness sweeps over the edge of fall and becomes winter.

The magician that is Daylight Saving Time will not forget where we live, one fine day tapping us on the shoulder with its own prestidigitation. “Pick a light,” it will offer us. “Any light.”

And any light will do just fine.

Especially now, as my seemingly exaggerated despondency over the flight of DST reminds me that I will be equally but oppositely emotional when the clocks move ahead one hour in March.

But that will be then and this is now.

So, hold on to the light inside you, and the light inside those you love—the eternal season that doesn’t leave with fall.

—JKW—