Friday Ramble - Little Ordinaries of the Season

It's small things that engage one's attention at this time of year: fallen leaves like confetti on the dock at the lake, trees raining acorns and crabapples, sunflowers inclining their heads and sending thousands of seed children out into the world, damp furrows where veggies flowered, fruited and have been gathered in.

Trees in the garden were touched by cool fingers overnight, and their grip on summer’s foliage has loosened. The fallen leaves rustle wonderfully underfoot. Bergamots, mints and sages planted for the bees and butterflies have gone to seed, and fall bloomers are sporting buds. One artfully curving branch on the ash tree behind the potting shed has already turned brilliantly yellow.

In the park, beech leaves float down in burnished, windblown drifts and come to rest on the trail at our feet. Sunlight flickers through the overstory as though through clerestory windows, and the woods feel like a cathedral that goes on and on forever. I am reminded of something John Crowley wrote in his incandescent novel, Little, Big: "The further in you go, the bigger it gets."

September is only a few days away, and autumn is already in the air. The little ordinaries of this liminal time between the seasons conjure an earthy litany that is colourful and spicy on the tongue, touched with a leaf-dusty fragrance that follows us wherever we totter and shamble and lurch.

Swallows are congregating on telephone lines before flying south, and skeins of geese move to and fro between rivers and farm fields. A new generation of monarch butterflies is testing its wings before flying south. Soon, the loons on our favorite lake will be calling goodbye as they head for warmer moorings, and the great herons will not be far behind them. Is it just me, or is there a restless spirit loose in the village and haunting the countryside at this time of the year?

It is cool here this morning, and far from recent thoughts of salads and cold drinks, I find myself pondering soups and stews, corn fritters and gingerbread, roasted squash, the first McIntosh apples lovingly folded into a baked crumble with oatmeal, maple syrup and cinnamon. Always, there is tea. Thinking about comfort food and culinary undertakings is a sure indication of autumn, all by itself.

Life becomes quieter as daylight hours wane. Temperatures decline, and migratory kin head for warmer climes. Leaves fall, and things go to seed. The light in this corner of the great wide world ebbs and flows. We watch what is happening around us, and we drink in every blessed thing like wine. Collars up against the wind, we potter about and peer into hedgerows and thickets. We feast our senses. Then we come home to tea and toast and molasses cookies. Home is a lovely word in any season.