The wind has more to it than summer might want to be a part of; this is no gentle breeze, soothing and soft to usher in a sunny day where children might frolic in the park, or an old man with shorts and sandals might walk his dog in a slow stole, so slow that the dog would look up now and again to let the old man know they were all but not moving.


Of course there were signs of what was ordained to happen before this morning. Not an omen of ill winds, though some might see it that way. It is more a celebration of what the summer has accomplished.  Some weeks ago the dogwood and the red oak had turned crimson along with the maples; the birch and hickory, not to be outdone had picked gold and bright yellow as their favorite hue, with the mountain maple picking a color in-between the others. Even until now, they have all held their leaves. One or two might have fallen, but the rest have held fast, a small rest in time and change where one season might get ready for the next.

It makes me wonder if there should be a time for people to ponder their seasons with greater speculation and planning; after all, there is but one turn of that wheel, and there is so much to learn should progress be measured by knowledge gained, or time well spent, or better still how much love was given to all that was encountered, especially should that measure be exacted by having lived the opposite of such encounters.

Nature does not do it by measurement, though I have heard that the turning of the leaves might be a signal for creatures that live with the trees to prepare for winter; the trees care about what sit upon their branches and live upon their leaves, to at least give them counsel of things to come. Much smarter than humanity.

We give more importance to the next sale of shovels and plows, pictures and warnings of old storms, fear of some cold that would not be feared but for having been delivered in a manner to do just that, as if we do not know enough to shelter from the cold as we do from the heat, such nonsense allowing us no place to sit on the bridges that must be crossed over, no time to contemplate, ponder, meditate on done and yet to be done. It’s why the time moves so quickly at the end. Where once only pulled along by what might be, now we are pushed and pulled as in some frantic race, pushed by all behind who dare not look at what is to come, pulled by a dire need to lay it all down, find refuse from what is finally understood might well have been a meaningless pilgrimage to nowhere.

The seasons know best, and the wind is purposeful in its job. There’s no reason to rush ahead to what is destined to be; let the transformation be as natural as day into night, or night into day. It’s not to destroy, rather to be what it is, an arbiter of change; and so, the leaves sail down and rattle on the ground, sweet smells lift and make the big Dane sniff the air. The Rat Terrier is more concerned about what makes the leaves move—monsters maybe. I chuckle with delight when a tiny whirlwind of leaves gives the Rat Terrier reason to jump to where you might think his next jump will be on the big Dane’s back, for refuge. Of course it could be the pup in him is having fun with the boy in me. The big Dane lays down on a clump of leaves and takes it all in; his time in dog years is past mine. He’s saving his energy to race the Terrier about the yard but still another round.

The sun gives a special sparkle to the ripples on the pond where leaves have gathered to take a final washing. This is a special time, transition from one season to another. The next season is no better no worse than the one before; each knows its duty and its way. Preparation is the key. You cannot take the leaves of summer into the heavy snows of winter, every birch knows that, and many bear the scars of having misread the change.

We could learn much from nature, were we not so human.