On early September mornings, the village can be a mysterious place. The earth is often warmer than the air above, and the chance meeting of the two elements wraps everything in a diaphanous veil, turns otherwise mundane landscape features into entities fey and luminous. Autumn is upon us, and the lady is comfortable in her tenure of mist, rain, wind and madcap tumbling leaves.
There is nothing like a good fog, and this time of the year dishes up some splendid atmospheric murks. Mist swirls around everything, draping the whiskery trees, smoothing hard edges and rounding the contours of house and street. The north wind scours leaves from the old trees near home, and they rustle underfoot as Beau and I go along on our early walks. Irv is always with us, and if we listen carefully, we can sometimes hear Cassie and Spencer pottering along beside us too, their doggy feet doing a kind of scuffling dance through the fallen treasure.
Out of the pearly gray and sepia come sounds now and again. Birds converse in hedgerows and geese move unseen among the clouds, singing as they pass over our heads. Doors open and close as sleepy residents collect their morning papers. There is the soft growling of automobiles and the rumble of buses, the muffled cadence of joggers gliding through the park, children chattering on their way to school, commuters heading downtown to work. Once in a while, there is the whistle of a faraway train, usually only a faint echoing in the air. Closer to home, raindrops beat a staccato rhythm on roofs, and little rivers sing through the eaves. All together, it is symphonic.
On such mornings, the world seems boundless, brimming with luminous floating Zen possibility, soil and trees and sky and mist giving tongue in a language that is wild and compelling. Part of me is curled up and engaged in a slow breathing meditation, counting my breaths, in and out, in and out. Other parts are out there drifting along with the fog and happy to be doing it. Happy September, everyone!
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