This is the time of year that the color yellow begins to take over. From coneflowers and sunflowers to sprays of goldenrod burgeoning in the open fields, yellow demands its time before the chill of fall takes over.

I love the yellow of daffodils in the spring, of course. That burst of warm color after a winter of bland landscape is a thrill. And the smell. Daffodils smell like heaven to me.

But the yellows of summer are always a bit richer and more profuse. A little wilder and uncontrolled. A little sadder perhaps because they signify the end, not the beginning of a sweet season.

When I go out for runs in the early morning light of August, the yellows of late summer often stand silent in the mist. Some are laced with dewy spider webs. Others lean over from the same dew, baptized by the night.

Sooner or late the yellow petals of the tall flowers fall while goldenrod waves its thick fists of color in the blue sky. Then one morning the first September leaves land on the ground, tinged with red. Another season has indeed begun.

Yellow may yet arrive in round shape of glorious maples, but it looks different than the yellow glow of summer. For now we can only stare and try to absorb these moments as we move along in our lives, by foot or otherwise.