10.2.14 As all about us, the wind blows, leaves spiral gently down to the ground in the dance of fall, and the rain starts up again

It was a variable path this morning, from dropping the nice guy off at work, to relishing the unexpected ( and not requested) freedom to determine my own day, wander a bit here and there, stop by The Kestrel Lane for the big pup stick-throwing-leg-stretching-puddle-splashing-bark-infested walk.

Two days ago, the environment was so very different there. It seems to be the value of getting to know certain places well, and returning to them often. You never wonder where a week or a month or a year went, because you were right there, all along, adapting to each and every shift and change in the environment and inside your self, and in your life

A sense of place. Once a norm, before we predominantly spent our time in vehicles and stores and houses. Think on it. How few of the population not too many hundreds of years ago spent so much time outside, regardless of the season.

As we went down the lane, the puddles were many, all filled with the glistening leaves of whatever trees were nearby. As trees begin to turn and turn quickly, not a crescendo as of yet, but a quickening.

 I have been falling in love with leaves in water. In puddles. With the sky’s reflection, at times, or simply the muted edges and colors in the waters. How they flash as a pup races by, rippling and splashing.

      

 

All the wild Asters are such a beautiful sight- so subtle and small , feeding insects and bees and flashing their whites and purples and blues.

All of the woods feels different at home too; the bats nearly gone away to other climates, or choosing to tough it out here, finding their protected places from the extreme cold, and when fall ascends further, they will hibernate. 

The chipmunks have made a comeback this year in my neighborhood, and are full of antics, often climbing the Mountain Laurel outside my bedroom window, to peer in, with all their boundless curiosity. Or protest, loudly, from a drain pipe, as I turn on the sprinkler for the Shade Garden, working to remember that if it doesn’t rain, many perennials die in fall. Many bushes do well with an overnight of tiny tiny dribbling, once, to protect them from any sever cold come winter. And the trees too, often do well with a night of tiny dribbling, to bolster their defenses.

Down the lane, the small ferns are becoming ghost-like, the large ones slowly losing color. I think of the many dynamics that occur via our DNA, as our bodies monitor light density and duration, and temperature shifts, day by day by day. And then adapt, by initiating so many physiological processes, for those of us in The Northern Hemisphere. Earth tilted upon it’s axis, and shifting. It’s orbit round the sun changing. Each living thing responding in kind to these seasonal changes. Preparing. 

The furred ones growing their layers of far and thicker fur and undercoats. The ones who will be torpid, such as the Chipmunks, preparing for their intermittent drowsy awakening to nibble a bit, hopefully far enough down into the earth that the Weasel and the Coyote are unable to dig to them, for breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

I walk along the sopping wet path, wondering what goes into a bat or bird of prey or so many other species choosing to remain, or go. I have seen many more Monarchs, by the way, which is encouraging.

We make our way to almost the end, but Dante is getting wise to the deal…beginning possibly to notice that there are actually fields beyond each side of the lane, and remembers the field at the end of the lane. I feel like he and I are in Eden, and at some point, he will bite into that apple, and no longer be content to run the lovely length of the lane, so flat and easy for my health.

But that is not today; today he is fully delighted with sticks constantly thrown, trying to reach my chosen stick before I do- me laughing, he delighted, as I try to throw him off, throwing backwards, or forward. Still, he glances through the thicket of trees to the area beyond, as I try to keep him engaged.

As all about us, the wind blows, leaves spiral gently down to the ground in the dance of fall, the rain starts up again as I slip my camera beneath my polar fleece, flip flops gone, sock season upon us, as off we head for home.