It's small things that engage one's attention at this time of year: fallen leaves like confetti on the old wooden dock at the lake, woodland maples turning red and gold, sunflowers inclining their heads and dropping thousands and thousands of seed children, damp furrows where a garden once bloomed and fruited.
Bronzey oak leaves on the trail have been touched by cold fingers overnight, and they crackle wonderfully underfoot in their earthy sepias and rosy creams. The magnificent beech trees in our woods are turning, and their coppery leaves fall in burnished, windblown showers. Autumnal sun streams through the flickering overstory as if through clerestory windows, and the forest feels like a cathedral that goes on and on forever. Our little seasonal ordinaries in its myriad chapels conjure a litany that is poignant and spicy on the tongue, touched with a dry and leaf-dusty fragrance that follows us all the way home.
Lines of swallows congregate on rural telephone lines before flying south. Skeins of geese move to and fro between rivers and farm fields, and there are the steady wing beats and plaintive calls of loons saying goodbye as they head for warmer moorings. Great herons still haunt local waters here and there, but they will not be far behind the loons in departing. Is it just me, or is there a restless melancholy spirit loose in the village and haunting the countryside?
It is much cooler here this morning, and far from recent thoughts of salads and cold drinks, I find myself pondering soups and stews, corn fritters and gingerbread, the first McIntosh apples lovingly folded into a baked crumble with oatmeal, maple syrup and cinnamon. Thoughts about comfort food and culinary undertakings are a sure indication of autumn, all by themselves.
Life becomes quieter as daylight hours wane in the last months of the calendar year. Temperatures tumble, migratory kin leave, and light changes - we drink every blessed thing in like wine. Gloves on gnarly paws, and collars turned up against the wind, we ramble and ponder and feast our senses on the colors, sounds and spicy fragrances of autumn. Then we come home to tea and toast and molasses cookies at nightfall. It's all good.
Happy September, everyone!
2 comments:
I think the reason I love your writing is that you paint with words. Eloquently!
Our days are still so hot...not even warm...here. I feel the heat of a climate change summer and while looking forward to autumn note that many of the plants are meeting unusual challenges in my neck of the woods. But your word picture has given me hope.
Post a Comment