Friday, September 18, 2009
As shadows lengthen into evening and the twilight begins to fall, the quiet time arrives ever earlier on the cool autumn air. In Bend, Oregon the aspen is soon bare, its withered leaves mouldering and scattered on the pumiced earth, hardened and silvery-sparkled by marbles of frost. Out my window, remaining ever-constant, stands a young evergreen, prickly and proud, pushing up toward the chilled mountain air like a forgotten scarecrow in a now fallow field. It reminds me that it is now time to open drawers to search for last year's gloves and to put my trusty sandals in the back of the closet. Soon there will be the whiteness, but not yet. First occurs the gray procession of shortening days, as the next chord in the rhythm of nature's lovesong.