When Fall Fades

It is early fall, and the forest is alive. A perennial affair is set to begin. 

The air is crisp. It signals a transformation deep in the woods. The trees sway to the memory of summer storms and scorching days that are finally giving way to the gradual descent into winter. A magnificent orchestration; a drawn-out spectacle. A connection to time and space and layers upon layers of existence.

There is hope in the first days of fall. The hope that this year, just maybe, you will see the change play out slowly, gently before your eyes. That this year, this fall, the momentum of the world will not distract and dilute your meditation. You will watch the trees change and the wind prune their leaves, showering the forest floor with the next generation. But this year, the sycamore turned early again. Its broad leaves float through the air like the sails of caravanning ships cutting into the wind. The oak, too, is already browning, though the days are still warm. It hasn’t rained in a while and the farmers have pulled the late crops early. There is talk of a freeze coming. They say nature is erratic these days.

You remember a letter. A love letter written long ago. There is a lonely mountain porch. The author describes the crunch of leaves under the feet of foxes frolicking out of sight and the pitter patter of squirrels dancing up and down the bark of the old grove. A single blast echoes in the forest. The author announces their longing for their intended to join. But the author waits on the porch alone: watching, smelling, feeling, taking in all of fall, breath by breath. The pen scribbles on, “I wish to spend an eternity of autumns by your side, on this porch: watching, smelling, feeling, taking in fall, breath by breath.” 

You think about writing a similar letter to your intended. But then you question whether that love will come if autumn does not. What if the days of watching, smelling, feeling last only a few fluttering moments? What love is to be had. What if the love is already gone.    

You passed the old lumber mill the other day. Workers from a generation long forgotten still come by to sit on the stoop of the abandoned storefront. Scraps of lumber never sold sit in scattered piles, the last remains of the hardwood forests of the backcountry. 

You continue down the two-lane road. Long, strong branches hang over like flying buttresses of a cathedral. The sun caresses the edge of each leaf, the branches glow in divine light. You are going somewhere. Church is in session today.

You wonder how many years we have to appreciate the coming and passing of fall. Natural cycles disrupted or transformed by climate change, you wonder when this annual phenomenon, too, will fade; the holiness of the season reduced to a few fleeting moments.

You imagine having to unlearn Fall and instead teaching your children something new. You try to remind yourself, for their sake, that leaves in this new world are either green or brown, and there is really no point in watching quietly from the porch anymore.  

Published by Skinny Dipper Magazine