Emily Brisse

These are the colors that flood the ears with whispers and rumors of rain

in Latin:   autumnus n French:   automne in Italian:   autunno in Spanish:   otoño in Portuguese:   outono in Arabic:   خريف in Lakota:   ptaŋyétu in Cebuano:   t ingdagdag in Somali:   d eyr in Greek:   φθινόπωρο in Chechan:   g üire in Thai:   ฤดูใบไม้ร่วง in Persian:   پاييز  in Czech:   podzim in Finnish:   syksy in Japanese:   秋 in Chinese:   秋天 in Danish:   efterår in Dutch:   herfst in low German:   h arvst in Old English:   hærfest in Icelandic:   haust Or, in Me: haystacks gravel-road drives dark earth and morning dried herbs acorns bonfires wild rice yelloworangeredbrown tractors and harvest time pomegranates warm cheese corners of swirling leaves dawn fog pumpkins auburn skies I see you,  you see me thinner trees cheers from fields on Friday nights warm soup hearty bread fr...

 

Hi all, Well, I'd say summer is almost over, but the truth is summer has been in the rearview for me for over two weeks already. My new set of students filled up my new campus on Monday, and brought with them the very tangible feeling of fall. Make no mistake: it was still hot outside. But school is scholarly and high hopes and eager nerves and very much what's next . I am dog tired. And can hardly sleep for the thirty-two things on my to-do list. But also: how many folks can say they get this--this influx of life  every autumn? Besides the kids and the content and the fact that, you know, I get to talk about books and words for a living, I am so grateful for the way the school calendar is cyclical, for the way even when it's harvest time, for me the world feels new. That said: summer was wonderful. WONDERFUL. So much time outside with my dear boy. There are ridiculous tan lines on my feet from my sandals, and this fact makes me grin, because the last time I had lines l...

  I've spent a good amount of time pointing out and exclaiming over ants, worms, beetles, spiders, and other small insect creatures this summer, so forgive me if I sometimes get completely taken in by the grace of these airy dancers. My boy calls them simply "butter." And, yes. But also, can we just pause a moment and consider how incredible it is that anything at all can flap its bits of wings and fly?

Ten years ago I drove down Highway 43 at dusk, watching the sun melt into a haze of orange over Deep Lake, and with one particular song that seemed to evaporate into the heavy air on repeat, I pulled my car into his parent's driveway. He was home from California, and in that moment, shooting baskets with his brother and two friends under the garage light and an assemblage of summer-drunk bugs. He wore a yellow shirt, thin and wide on his shoulders. When his gaze met mine through the windshield glass--that smile, that shirt, that sun, those bugs, the rest of our lives: there they were. What I remember of that summer was like that look: heady. Anyone who has not just walked toward love but fallen off the dock into the black midnight waters of it will know what I mean. You do not know you can talk that long, grin that big, stare that uninterruptedly, kiss that hard, laugh that loud, dream that vividly, hope that unapologetically until suddenly you are doing all of those things, unti...

Instead of forests, this summer we are Big Sky and pointed fingers. (And it feels fine.)