Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow: A sonata of words in four parts. Part III: The colder winds

I can taste snow in the colder winds of autumn. The warmer winds hold the memory of summer and wrap themselves around in a friendly embrace, as if to say, "Goodbye; I'll see you next year." Soft breezes, neither warm nor cold, rustle the leaves on the peaceful autumn afternoons, their faint whispers dying after so short a life. Such brief breaths just as the transient autumn is brief, only a season in passing on our way to winter. But the colder winds hold a taste of snow, so faint that perhaps I imagine it. Even the winter winds that bring on the snows do not taste of snow themselves, as though those tiny flakes deny the winds they ride on of any flavor they posess. The winter winds are coldest of all, but the colder winds of autumn are colder still. They stir the air and bring a chill in a way that winter winds cannot, for icy caress of the winter winds touch faces that are already shivering. Faces that have had time to learn to ignore the cold. The colder winds of autumn bring a chill that is unexpected. They sneak up and spring themselves upon you when you least expect it. And they through stuff at you, though the colder winds of autumn don't have the greatest precision in aim. I swear that several times I've passed this one tree and an acorn falls with more force than can be attributed to gravity in a spot where I had been standing only a moment before, and then once one fell right in front of me, where I was about to step. The quick gust that accompanies each of these attacks disappears as soon as I look up. Something else I've noticed: those colder winds are always dry, even when everything else is soggy and wet.