Wikipedia defines season like this:
A season is a division of the year, marked by changes in weather, ecology, and hours of daylight. Seasons result from the yearly orbit of the Earth around the Sun and the tilt of the Earth’s rotational axis relative to the plane of the orbit. In temperate and polar regions, the seasons are marked by changes in the intensity of sunlight that reaches the Earth’s surface, variations of which may cause animals to go into hibernation or to migrate, and plants to be dormant.
There is so much more to it than that.
Seasons are the clockwork of memory, the breath of work reflected in lush fields of corn, bags of leaves piled along curbs, frozen mountains of snow pushed up against far reaches of parking lots, sand castles built against tides to dwindle and be built up again, the yield of any temporary labor as all labor is temporary, kites flying like anthems, live music drifting like wind across water, breezes starting up out of stillness over prairies, grasses bending in wind, dust being swept, rocks turning to sand, newborns taking first breaths, sobbing widows looking skyward deciding they did their best, in summer winds, children’s clothing like flags on clotheslines, the smell of fresh laundry mingling with fresh cut grass and wafts of bazooka gum, rains running down streets eventually making it to seas, the struggles and triumphs of transition, turning to find ourselves having made it through something, out of the cabin, to the clearing, into the woods, out of a quarry, standing atop mountains, staring at sunsets, looking down the road, stretched out forever, as seemingly endless opportunity.
These are only scratching the surface of what I am thinking tonight. This is just a riff, a doodle, a memory, sitting here meditating on the end of one and the beginning of another. Season.