We awake to yet another
day at hand. We say, under our breath 'Oh hello, there you are.' We see the new
day, dark and windy ,the trees half shed of all their now dry leaf. We look
about, and once again can see farther, so that here, the outwaters down the
foothill, slowly reveal themselves within the forest.
The far hills to the north, west and east all gradually become known again, unobscured by the riotous Spring growth, or the thick Summer's greenery. Here, where Fall nips the nights onward into cold and chill and intermittent frost , we settle in to the sounds and smells of walks in the woods, scattering the deep layers of fallen leaves. We watch as the toads and snakes, then chipmunks seek winter homes and winter ways.
Still, the Swiss Chard in the garden surges with its delicate veins and deep red and green hues. The kale rebounds now that the cold has taken the cabbage worms away, the thick curls and brazen deep green leaves stunning in their November health.
At the edge of the herb garden, the old pink rose sends out its buds and blossoms , resolute, into the day. As the valerian hunkers down, bright green, and the elecampane and skullcap sleep.
Here, we mow over the gathering crowds of leaves, mulching them so that winter rains and freeze and thaws will carry them deeply into the earth.
We rearrange snowblower and lawnmower, pull out dusty bird feeders and empty out old clay pots so recently filled with tall vibrant coleus.
These are the quiet ways, much like den cats or fishers or bower birds, our small habits as humans, wherever we be, embodying the cycles of our lives.
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