Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all. — Stanley Horowitz
Once again, the seasons culminate in a time of shorter days and a gathering in. Around me, the woods are changing into their fall attire, one garment at a time. A gold leaf here, a crimson one there, while the rest cling to their green glory awaiting their turns. Not only are the trees decked in grandeur, but the ground as well, strewn several leaves thick with mottled overlapping color whose patterns shimmer like holograms after each strong wind gust. Look away for a moment, and the scene will have changed when you turn back again.
The color variations in fallen leaves is nothing short of amazing, the fronts and backs of many of them belying the fact that each is part of a whole. I painted an image of a maple leaf once in an art class, depicting its face in a familiar way with bright red-orange and yellow. The back, however, was the greater challenge, for it in no way resembled the front. What appeared as bright warm colors on the front were displayed as pale greenish-gray hues, interspersed with blood-red splotches, on the back. I never quite arrived at how this opaque, seemingly uninteresting and unrelated backing could translate into such fire on the leaf’s upper surface. Such is the wonder of nature, baffling us at every turn.
As loud as autumn days are in their riotous coloring, they are equally as quiet once night falls. Aside from the crickets’ white noise and the occasional hoot of an owl or bark of a fox, all is still. The thrushes are long gone, and the loons no longer call to each other from pond to pond. One morning last week, a flock of geese passed quite low over this place, plying the early-morning darkness with their distinctive honking. I couldn’t tell which way they were headed, though I assumed they were beginning their annual southward migration. But in the warm days that ensued, it would not have been at all unusual for them to take a short detour to some local water hole, as these broad-winged wonders are able to tolerate some measure of cooler weather.
This seems to be a good time to do some much-needed trimming around here. Despite the year’s second generation of mosquitoes, working outside is once again bearable, and I’ve taken the opportunity to cut down a few small pines whose growth was being stunted by taller nearby deciduous trees. I’m liking how this has opened a space allowing me to see more deeply between their narrow trunks to areas that were hidden before. It’s easier, too, to see the bird activity in there now, as the nuthatches, juncos and chickadees forage for fall treats. I don’t see many acorns in the tops of the oaks this year, hinting at what may amount to a slim harvest. Or maybe the squirrels have been busier than they appear to be, along with the chipmunks who are scurrying about these days in anticipation of the time when the openings to their burrows will be blocked with snow.
Remnants of last night’s rain continues to drip from the trees as the sun works from its southeasterly perch to dry them. A rich aroma rises from the damp earth, and maple leaves catch the light as they drift downward, unrushed, to join others on the forest floor. I will work on the woodpile, stacking it here and there in such as way as to make it as easy to get at as possible once I need to. And on days when rain once again threatens, when it drips from eaves and slips from leaves, like the season, I will perform my own ritual of gathering in. Mine is not, however, of tangibles like pumpkins, apples and dried cornstalks. Rather, it is a drawing to myself of another year’s-worth of impressions and images taken from these woods, thoughts, sensations, sights, smells and sounds that, like good friends, came for a visit ”“ and stayed.
— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Lyman, can be reached via e-mail at rlovejoy84253@roadrunner.com.
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