The Soft-dying Day

*This post was originally published in October 2008 (I was alluding to more than winter BTW). I have slightly changed some of the wording this time. It's still my personal favourite. One for the Fall lovers.


I awoke this morning in my southern New England home to the sound of the wind pushing against the house. Outside the sky was a crisp blue. The multi-colour leaves of autumn were lining up like golden sky-divers; waiting for their cue to leap from the trees and then tumble and dance down the hilly road.

The wind breathed excitement and animation outside my window. Until recently the heavy foliage of summer had stopped it from reaching the green frog that hangs, unspinning, over my deck. But now that the fall has come you can see patches of sky again and the frog spins madly throwing off spirals of reflected light. Speedy, Sparky and their friends that inhabit the grassy bank, are nervous. The sweet smelling autumn wind moves everything and drowns out the normal sounds of safety. The change of air is tangible to them as they stand on their hind legs, twitching and sniffing. The small mammals are obvious now because they are the only stationary things. Ironic that they should be so exposed by the very act that has hitherto kept them safe.

In the front of the house, the verdant green canopy is transformed into boney black fingers that point skywards accusingly. “The sky took the leaves, the sky took the leaves.” they say and the sky is guilty as charged.

Later, as I leave the house, the wind pushes me urgently from behind as I walk, “Move along, move along. No time to hang around, it is coming.”

And later still, I’m in the car and the radio tells me that indeed, snow has fallen in the north already. I am dismayed to realise that it is dark at both the 6.30s that occur in any given day.

The wind excites us with its news but it will be gone tomorrow leaving the horrible realisation that the better parts of the year are beyond reach now and soon the heavy cold grey blanket will replace the blue. We will retreat to our homes and burrows. The spiraling green frog will be taken down and stored along with the cheery summer lanterns that line the paths around us. Collect your firewood and admire the last few stubborn leaves then hunker down. Winter isn’t long now.




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Bazza

Title from 'To Autumn' by John Keats