The Quieting
There are always seasons within the seasons. Autumn is rich and heady. There is a rich sense of ripeness in the
air. Chilly mornings are touched with
frost, but the temperature rises with the sun, so that the frost melts soon after the
golden light caresses it. The leaves are
brilliant and still supple as they flutter in the stirring breeze. The azure sky is deep and faultless, wide and brim-full with birdsong.
Autumn, though, has faded into fall like the colors of
sunset fade into the twilight. This morning was a cold 21 degrees, making me pull on gloves and exchange my hat
that mainly blocks the sun to a fleece one that I can pull down over my
ears. Most of the leaves are scattered
deep on the ground, all faded now to a brittle brown. Only the oak leaves still cling desperately
in the high branches, but even an armful of these flutter down with each burst of
the wind that seems to be testing itself as a young eagle tests its wings
before taking full flight. The sky is low and heavy, covered with a thick quilt of steel gray clouds.
Last week yet the sandhill cranes and the geese were
staging on the big marsh to the west.
Every dusk and every dawn the building chorus filled the sky. Last week hundreds of cranes took flight to
go out to the grain fields to feed. This
morning, there was one flock of a mere dozen birds that lifted into the
morning, quickly aligning to the south. I'm unsure, even doubtful that they will return this evening. Shell
ice has stilled nearly half of the pond’s surface so, even the stragglers
still trickling down from the north will pass through quickly and the marsh will soon be empty
and silent until next March.
I glance to my left and notice a doe who has already
noticed me. I stop and we stare at each
other, each wondering what the other’s intentions are. She blends into the tall grasses dried brown and rust colored so well that if it weren’t for her ears cupped in my direction, I
may have walked by unaware of her presence. When her
ears lay back I know that she has made up her mind; she turns and bounds off.
The breeze has also now stiffened into a persistent northwest wind, cold enough that my cheeks feel numb. It feels good to turn back toward home and put that wind at my back. The thought of a hot cup of coffee helps me pick up the pace some. The only birds I see as I finish my morning walk are four or five chickadees that keep pace about twenty yards ahead of me as I pass by the big woods. All I hear from them is one who lets out a few one-note buzzings before flying deeper into the woods.
Fall is the quieting time that leads to the
silence of winter, and it is here.
His Peace <><
Deacon Dan
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