Thursday, October 25,
2012, 8-9 a.m.
Came the wind in the night
and blew the leaves off maple trees and lindens. (Ash and walnut were already
bare; catalpa yet in leaf.) Wind continued as the sky grew light, glowing rose
in both east and west. Ribbons of cloud over the eastern woods now turn from
pink to pewter grey.
A band of hardy little
popples venture out from the bank above the stream, seeking to colonize the
meadow, along with a few small cottonwoods and two or three autumn olives that
escaped the spring purge. Among the grasses, purple asters, milkweed, and Queen
Anne’s-lace are also the much-less-welcome spotted knapweed. This is how it is
with any invasion of pioneers: all sorts pour in.
The wind arrives in a series
of gusty, irregular waves. Each wave begins first as a far-off drone, rising to
a dull roar, and then becoming at last a whispering and rattling and clattering
in the closest leaves and grasses. The air feels as soft and fresh as early
summer, but its perfume is that of fall, dense with mould and rich with decay.
Milkweed seeds escape their pods and chase about, catching on other weeds like
bits of wool at the edge of a sheep pasture, fluttering incessantly.
Is that a bird in the
willows? A quarrelsome squirrel? The sound goes on and on. Perhaps it is the
rubbing of wind-tossed branches. The willows, their heights gradually lighted
by the rising sun, toss heavy-leafed branches about like wild horses nodding
and shaking heavy-maned heads.
Somewhere out of sight a
flock of Canada geese passes overhead. The old farmhouse and barns watch over
the meadow with stoic calm. They have seen many autumns.
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