The Last Week of September

I have written, over the years, that July is my favorite month. October is second. 

But if you ask me to pick a specific time of year... well, I guess I would still pick the first week of July. Fuck, I love it so. 

But the last week of September at 7000 feet would be next. The days are warm; the nights are chilly. The skies are blue. The chamisa blooms. 

It briefly feels like spring, but the sun is noticeably lower in the sky and light is golden.  

I wasn't planning to have anything to drink for at least a week after my debaucherous California trip, but driving home from work, I was struck by how beautiful everything was.

I got a six-pack of Coors Light and sat outside, smoking a package of Taylor's meatballs and listening to music. 

In another week or two, the mountains above town will explode in color as the aspen leaves change and it will be more beautiful, but right here, at this moment, everything was perfect.