Autumn leaves have fallen. We’ve even had a bit of the white stuff, but it didn’t stay. In fact, neighborhood lawns are a brilliant spring green, even if the trees are bare and all the flowers in my garden have faded to brown, skeletal stems and seed heads that sway in the breeze.

The last hours of autumn are ticking away, while outside my window the sky is a brilliant blue. The air is chilly but feels more like early spring than the beginning of winter. While I know this won’t last, I’m enjoying every final moment of autumn. Who knows? Maybe winter will be of the kinder, gentler variety this year.

Each year at this time—sometimes sooner, sometimes on the first day of winter, I begin my countdown to spring. Winter may be the shortest season as far as its number of days is concerned, but the darkness of shortened days and bitter cold make it seem so much longer, especially when cabin fever hits in February. But for today, as the sun dips toward the hilltops across the valley, I’m thinking just how beautiful a day it’s been.

There are 89 days until spring. And counting.