Songs in a Different Key

Leaves crunching underfoot or rattling like sabres, ice crystals limning fences, blowsy plumes of frosted grasses, leaf strewn puddles on the trail—all are plangent leitmotifs in the windy musical work that is late autumn. At this time of the year, the woodland is an Aeolian harp, a vast musical instrument that only the wind can play.

The landscape is settling slowly into the subdued tints of early winter: bronzes, creams, beiges and silvery greys, small splashes of winey red, burgundy, russet, here and there touches of a deep inky blue almost iridescent in its sheen and intensity.

On our morning walks, frost forms sugary drifts on old wood along our path, dusts ferns and outlines fallen leaves almost transparent in their lacy textures. An owl's artfully barred feather lies in thin sunlight under the fragrant cedars down by the spring and seems to be giving off a graceful, pearly light of its own. The weedy residents of forest, field and fen cavort in fringed and tasseled hats.

One needs another lens and tuning for late autumn and early winter, a different sort of vision, songs in a different key. The senses are performing a seasonal shift of their own, moving carefully from longer, brighter days and grand summer happenings into the consideration of things small, still and muted, but complete within themselves and perfect, even when they are cold and wet and tattered.

There is light in the world, even in these dark times, and I have to remember that. My camera and lens never forget, and out in the woods, they drink in light like nectar. I am thankful that they do and that they remind me at every turning along on the trail—we are made of star stuff. We live in a sea of light.

Rambles at Sunrise

And so they continue... our routines of staying home and doing homely things like gardening, yard work and baking, of taking long rambles with Beau in early morning before our favorite haunts are tenanted by unleashed dogs and their thoughtless owners, by sleepy walkers, bemused gawkers and weekend warriors.

Nights are still cold here, but early mornings are perfect for wandering about, and we seldom encounter anyone else on our rambles. In the overstory, grosbeaks start their day with a song, and woodpeckers tap-tap-tap on nearby trees. Geese fly overhead between the river and local farm fields, now and then, a solitary heron, a bittern or a great northern diver (loon) in graceful flight. This morning, a single cormorant flew over our heads on its way north.

Seen through the trees, the early flickering sunlight is grand “stuff”, and it has a buttery, caressing quality.  Greenery is coming up everywhere through last autumn's fallen leaves, delicate ferns and blooming trout lilies near the creek,  budding trilliums, the leaves of hepatica, wild columbines and tiny wild hyacinths. When we pass through her grove, I greet the Beech Mother and give her a pat. I'd give her a hug, but she is an old tree and my arms are not long enough to do that.

Beau and I go slowly along together, and the light is a shawl on our shoulders, one woven by the Old Wild Mother in shades of green and gold. There so many treasures to be seen in the woods―it is a wonder we ever get anywhere at all.