My first autumn at the lake began with just a subtle change in
the light, with skies a deeper blue, with a sharp chillness in the air which could be felt in the shade, and the disappearance of migrant birds.
Each day merged easily into the next without structure,
meaning I never actually knew what day it really was. Every day felt the same,
neither a Monday, nor a Saturday, or any other day for that matter. October was
reminiscent of summer in so many ways.
The acoustics of fall are dramatically different though than summer—autumn’s
voice can be heard as sharply as the air is crisp. But still I endured constant tormenting by the scolding Stellar's
Jay and the mischievous “yak yak yak” of the Magpie. At night now I
can still hear the “hoo-hoo-hooooo’ing” of the Great Horned Owl, accompanied
by the eerie yelping and howling cries of coyotes across the lake.
Fall is so bright and intense and beautiful. It is as if
nature is trying to fill me up with fiery color, to saturate me before winter turns
everything stark and grey and cold.
Then came November—the wild month tinged with melancholy and
the promise of shortened days, dull and dark. Just barely a day old it brought
the long awaited rattle of rain on my tin roof and then later that week a hard
frost which finally decimated my summer Begonias. I can remember watching in
awe as a mad rush of snow birds headed south in their heavyweight RV’s. And none too
soon as just a day later winter made an early debut with a premature snowfall, delicate as
lace but rapidly melting.
My stripped and beautiful Birches, grieving the loss of their
dearly departed leaves, creak and groan in the wind. A sobering reminder that we will soon be plunged
into the cold shadows of winter where the bone structure of the landscape can
be felt from every angle, where bitter blasts bite at exposed hands and faces,
and hard frosts extinguish what’s left of the year. We will return once again to
a plain sense of things.
“Are ye the ghosts of fallen leaves, O flakes of snow, for
which, through naked trees, the winds A-mourning-go? -John B. Tabb
