The first signs of change have come quietly. The kids have returned to school, our mornings marked by the rustle of backpacks and the hum of yellow school buses. The tempo of life has shifted, not with fanfare, but with the return of routine. Out here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada, a five-minute cross-town trip to Walmart can now take 15 minutes, intensifying traffic as parents drop off their children while releasing a collective sigh of relief.
Even in our small town, the reality of life in 2025 is harsh. On the first day of high school, a false report of a school shooting came before the first bell. Thankfully, it was a nasty prank played out on social media. Since then, everything has been smooth, except for the additional yellow buses on our roadways.
Another monsoonal system brushed across the desert, sprinkling the sage and sand with just enough rain to release that familiar, earthy fragrance. It’s a gift that comes sparingly in our area, after which the desert seems to pause and breathe deeply. The mountainsides around here are a nice shade of green.
The wild mustangs have drifted down from the high country, their coats sleek against the late summer sunshine. They move with a knowing grace, as though answering an ancient call carried on the wind. Their presence near the valley floor is a reminder that the season is changing, that even in wide, open spaces, life follows its own rhythms of retreat and return.
In the garden, the peonies have laid themselves to rest with blooms spent, their beauty folded back into the earth. They’ve “turned up their toes” for another year, making way for the subtler colors of autumn. Overhead, hummingbirds sip at feeders one last time, their wings a blur of urgency. Soon, they’ll migrate south, chasing warmth and blossoms yet to come.
Even among people, migration begins. The snowbirds are leaving on their own journeys, packing up campers and steering toward milder climates. Slowly, driveways empty, and RV’s are on the move. Don’t think for one moment that the week after Labor Day is a great time to visit the National Parks. Parks are clogged with retired Seniors this week, who waited until the kids are back in school. Been there, done that. It’s a different kind of unpleasant.
Here, fall arrives not in a rush of color, but in whispers with cooler mornings, longer shadows, and the hush of wings in flight. It’s a season that asks us to notice the small shifts, settle into the comfort of change, and to honor the steady turning of time. On the high desert plains, where the sky feels endless and the land holds its secrets well, fall is less an arrival than a gentle unfolding.
During this unfolding, I feel gratitude for the mustangs that remind me of resilience, for the fleeting blooms that teach me about rest, for the birds that carry on with certainty, and for the desert itself, which, even in its sparseness, offers abundance in rhythm and grace. I’m grateful to be a part of such beauty.
