It is fast approaching the time when a glance out any of these windows will once again show me bare trees, their trunks gray against the remaining green of the pines and hemlocks. The leaf drop continues to reveal new pieces of sky to me, and the horizon lowers a bit more each day. For there is little sky to see here from May to October, with roughly a 30-foot space in the canopy over the front porch, and a much smaller one in the back yard. During the late spring, summer and early fall, there is no sky at all to be seen from the back porch, nothing but a low ceiling of leaves overhead.

Thanks to two of my good friends, I can rest a bit more easily now since their coming two weeks ago to help me insulate pipes and trim some of the branches that were hanging precariously low above the back porch and the roof. During an ice storm, those limbs would most surely have touched down, the worst of them being the one hanging right over the chimney stack. The thought of an ice-encrusted branch swinging against it was not sitting well with me, but it’s been resolved. And the fewer potential problems that I am forced to deal with in the winter, the better.

The oaks are hanging onto their leaves this year, and I am noticing a greater variety of color among them. The branch that hangs just outside the living room window has an assortment of pale greens, browns and russets on it, while other oak leaves are bright yellow, brick red, or golden brown. They make an interesting pattern among the pines, a cool/warm contrast that is not only pleasing to the eye, but that renders these now much shorter days more precious. With the sun now sinking behind the trees around 4 p.m., I must take in as much visual grandeur as I can to tide me over until the next day and for all the days of winter that lie ahead.

The path leading out from behind the shed into the woods is heavily carpeted now, as is the back yard. I love the softening effect a thick layer of leaves has on everything, and how they provide a sort of mat to walk on that keeps me from tracking as much dirt into the house. I dragged a barrel out there with me yesterday to harvest kindling wood from the many branches that have fallen recently on days when the wind has been particularly generous. Filling it took no time at all in these thick woods, and the yard looked a bit better for it. But better still, it provided me with yet another good reason to spend time under the trees, listening to the crackle of dry leaves swaying in the breeze.

Fall is a peaceful time in the woods, with often nothing more to disturb the quiet than blue jays calling or squirrels chasing each other up and down tree trunks. I watched quietly one afternoon last week as a small herd of perhaps 10 deer made their way slowly across my upper yard, across the road and into the woods near the small pond. The next day, I came home to a flock of turkeys parading across the driveway, and I heard their scuttlings in the dry undergrowth long after I lost sight of them. Emmett the cat and I took a walk to the vernal pool behind the shed where I stood watching tiny eddies made by falling twigs and and pine needles, marveling at the bright green moss that drapes a fallen log at its edge. It was still and quiet there, and I took in the strong scent of yet another year in these woods settling down around me.

I’ve put the bird feeder back out and am once again enjoying the daily visitations of the birds that feast there. It occurs to me that I operate to a great degree by an unwritten plan here, a schedule if you will, comprised of tasks that are all second-nature to me now. It’s a putting away of past things and preparing for what’s to come, an endless cycle of bidding farewell to one routine only to embrace another, with nature providing us ample time during three lovely seasons to prepare for the fourth, and most challenging of all.

— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Lyman, can be reached via e-mail at rlovejoy84253@roadrunner.com.

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