The balmy morning, so unusual in the Northeast for November, beckoned me outside, even though the heavy grey clouds threatened rain. Chancing a walk, break-through sunshine rewarded me with its warmth as I stood with upturned face, grateful for the bounty.
Do the trees, and hills, and sky feel my appreciation? Is there a quantum transfer leaving us both changed?
I sit, watching the mill brook water rush over the ledge and rocky stream bed on its way to a river, which will eventually deposit in the sea. A rush of ochre-hued oak leaves tumble into the flow – most being swept downstream – while many other leaves jam up on an exposed ledge, several breaking away when the rock can hold no more.
How many years has this pattern continued, and how has the ledge been worn by the water and weather’s destruction? I’m not looking at the same stream bed I saw last autumn, I know, but it feels unchanged except for the knowledge that new leaves are falling into new water.
A tree trunk lies along the stream bank – had that been there last year? Was the slim, young birch pulled over like that, appearing as if to sip from the clear pool below it?
Another, older birch, its white bark illuminated, shines like a sentinel among the dark wooded oaks and pines, three thick, crooked branches jut into the air, appearing like a trident, perhaps, forgotten by Poseidon.
The dank, musty air, particular for autumn, stimulates undefined memory, and I thank the land for making me richer this rare day.
© seekingsearchingmeaning (aka Hermionejh) and Abstractly Distracted’s Blog, 2010 – current