I wrote a song a long time ago called ‘Autumn in New York.’ It’s hard to find a place on the planet that isn’t beautiful in autumn, and New York is no exception, but I didn’t write the song there. I was at my kitchen table in California writing about a goodbye and in my mind I saw a taxi taking off in a rustle of city-striken fall leaves where a just-tossed cigarette was still smoldering in the wet gutter of the street. And to me, that’s what goodbye looked like. Autumn in New York.

Autumn is my favorite time of year but it also feels like goodbye. The natural world retreats into itself and waits on spring’s rebirth and most humans follow along, lamenting the loss of daylight before hibernating in their winter clothes. The season has always been a period of change for me, whether I like it or not, and this autumn is no exception.

I don’t know what’s on the other end of this transition for me. I do know that I’m on a plane headed for New York, where I’m playing some songs and speaking and seeing some old friends. Is there a rebirth happening? Are there winter storms coming my way before my own internal spring? Hard to say when the only constant is change.

All I know is that it’s autumn in New York.

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