September is Portland’s greatest month. It’s undeniable; the rain returns.

It’s not a dominating day-on-day-on-day rain, but an instant of precipitation, a duo of drizzles before the weather returns to its regularly scheduled summer sweeps. The lizards of the world may complain, but for the amphibious that morning dew is a point of pride. A petrichor perfume that wafts on the water, whets the grass of a river city called home. And when the sun breaks through, temperatures fall to the mid-high seventies, a breeze sails on the air, and trees glimmer with a last verdant iridescence.

The end of this glorious season harries the heart to enjoy one last weekend camp in the woods or a hike through the West Hills. It does not, however, signal the end of fun; where camping and hiking weekends end, nights spent at the ballroom or skiing on the mountain slope fills. Where a soccer season envelopes, a basketball hoop opens. This balance of activity is the key to the renewal of spirit that occurs with every change of the guard here in Portland.

An energy not found in tropical or desert environs. This is a temperate realism taught with equanimity the solstice and equinox of each year. As the sun rises and sets at seven, and the daylight dwindles further, Portland holds on to the dream of summer with the knowledge invincible that color is only made more vivid by the onset of the grey. Without these times of transition, there would a struggle to find time for reflection. It’s as if the city itself reminds her inhabitants to teach themselves the lessons they have spent the season learning.

When next I walk through downtown on these thoughts, I hope to look up and see Portlandia perched on the parapet, her trident pointing to the sky. She knows.

---