Between seasons

Is there a word for this? A word that properly defines that time that isn’t quite summer anymore but not yet fall? Kind of like that time of day that isn’t night but not day either called crepuscular. There probably is and as much as I love words I’ve probably heard it or been told what it is but at my age no surprise that at this moment I cannot recall it.

I do like this time though. Every morning my dog, Lily and I usually jog about 3 or 4 miles. Some mornings, like today, we give ourselves a day off and just walk. Air conditioners, usually thrumming heartily to give the home occupants refreshing cool air are quiet. If we do hear the occasional one it could just as easily be somebody cranking up their furnace in the 50-odd degrees of the morning. Most windows are thrown open to inhale the cool, dry air.

Just before the sun’s light tinges the edges of sky and clouds comes the first birdsong. Tentative at the beginning, one joins the first, then another, then whole conversations– cardinals, woodthrush, mockingbirds, robins, Carolina wrens… so many voices joyfully singing in the new day.

Our winter-spring walks hold that same anticipation. Just as the cold and brittle sharpness of glinting frost gives way to the soft warmth of spring, instead of a glittering sparkle of icy shards we see a shimmering sheen of dewfall. There is a cacophony of calling, chirping, whistling heralding this day! The anticipation of new life, birth, baby leaves and sprouting vines is palpable in the pulse of sound.

Still, I wish I could remember what the word for it is.

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