Friday, October 31, 2014
To Walk With Autumn
"There may be other times as good as late October to be out afoot and see the world, but there certainly isn't a better one. To walk with the scuffle of new-fallen leaves, to feel the mild sun and see the Autumn sky, to have the company of busy squirrels in the woods and restless ducks on the river, is to sense the season at first hand. To look at the hills in their true dimensions and see to the end of the valleys whence the frost came creeping down last night is to know a world that has achieved the annual miracle.
Walk the country roads and the open fields now and you are a witness to great events accomplished. The sugar maples stand in deep pools of their own leaf gold. The goldenrod is graceful and gray with ripeness. The milkweed offers a richness of silk and seed to every breeze. The white oaks, still brown and crimson with persistent leaves, have planted tomorrow's groves in their own shade. The jack-in-the-pulpit has summarized its own sermon on immortality in a cluster of lacquer-red berries.
Yesterday is all around you, last Spring's growth and last Summer's maturity and last month's ripeness. But tomorrow is there too, the sprout, the leaf, the blossom, waiting only for another Spring. The ripeness is but a part of the continuity, achievement rather than completion. We think of it as the evening of the year; but after the dusk comes starlight, and dawn, and another day. To walk with Autumn is to be in the presence of forever." Hal Borland Sundial of the Seasons
Friday, October 24, 2014
|(there is more color than this now)|
"The sky walker will be abroad tonight. He always walks the moonlight. Autumn moonlight in particular, when the katydids have almost ceased their rasping chorus. No doubt the sky walker strides the land at other times as well, but his presence can best be known when the Autumn quiet lies upon the hills.
Go out in the moonlight and watch the treetops, if you would know the sky walker. The night is silent as a moonbeam, the trees themselves untouched by as much as a wisp of a breeze. Then there is a far-off whisper, a crisp sibilance in the distance. It grows, and the leaves of a whole treetop are in motion, crisp Autumn leaves not yet fallen from the branch. Then the next tree is touched, and the next, and a whole path of rustling leaves becomes evident. The sky walker has come striding through those trees, scuffling the leaves ahead of him as a schoolboy scuffles the roadside leaves on his homeward path at sundown. And when he has passed by, there is silence again, the silence of still leaves in October moonlight.
No one ever sees the sky walker, and no one ever will. Sometimes he seems to be there in a wisp of mist; but at best the watcher has seen nothing more than the sky walker's mist-white moccasins, perhaps not even the moccasins but only the momentary scuffle of mist risen dustlike from his footsteps. No one has ever seen him, yet he must be there, making his moonlit rounds when the leaves are brittle with Autumn. We have heard him often as he passed by, particularly when the moon is at the full and we ourselves are full of understanding." Hal Borland Sundial of the Seasons