Kicking the Leaves of Fall
Summer’s end, everyone wants just one more day, one more dance with summer.
The sidewalks all lined with stately oaks and maples, the fallen leaves, they blanket the walkway with a golden snow, thick in beautiful golds and reds. By winter, only the tiny skeletons of the leaves is all that will be remaining; the lucky leaves will end up in some child’s momentary collection, or as art in their classroom.
I thought today, between being born, the giving of life, and death, that in between the two is the living experience, the creation of memories and the lessons learned. Looking at the trees and their falling leaves, I wondered what are their creation of memories and their lessons learned; would they be sadly the cutting and the trimming?
What lays before me, in all its splendor and beauty, what lay before my visionary mind harkens the brush strokes of Norman Rockwell, his description of the golden season of nature’s grand old sentrys.
The bare and bony trees, the spindly branches no bigger than the pointy finger of the old lady on the hill. Fluttering in, through, and out, their minute chirps barely heard; the finches and chickadees pick at the last of the fall buds.
I wonder, the fall wind nibbling at my neck, cheeks and nose; if all of nature had a last dance with summer, would it, oh most definitely it would be a waltz. All the tiny finches, red breasted robins, their music of chirps and peeps; making Johann Strauss smile and listen closely.
No waltz for me, just not much of a dancer, but I do like to see more life than I can see in my living room, and in the fall; I walk, look at the birds, the scavenger black birds, the occasional coyote. In human terms, they are all more the hobo, unkempt and always the food and scraps of last night’s dinner people set out for them.
But come winter, the gathering of food becomes sparse, we feed them, caring for them the best we can; during winters washing away, with the season’s rain, snow and ice. The boldness of winter, life of all that grows from the ground to the highest tree tops goes dormant; till the warm springs thawing when life once more thrives.
Kicking these leaves like a child, the thought filters in, between the human elements of life and the animal and the fowl, and all that is natural in all that my eye can see; is life equated. Some will return, some won’t, some will be trimmed and some will be cut down, but it is all; life . . . equated.
Pull the collar up around my neck, this world is getting colder; still some time left to kick some leaves, but it’s time to go home.