November dance

Leaves have been flying off and on most of the day. Even the oaks are letting go of more of last season's photosynthesizers, rather than hanging on until Spring. The grass heads have been bobbing and weaving in the wind, creating  a fairy dance that celebrates Autumn.

Autumn's grass seed heads    © harrington

There was lots of discussion this morning over coffee about beekeeping risks and rewards. We don't want to make the investment in some hives and colonies if any of us are really allergic to bee stings. We're going to work on getting that sorted out and see about joining the beekeeper's association to learn some more and, hopefully, get some actual experience before spending any notable amount of money. We seem to be becoming radically commonsensical around here.

I saw this year's first load of Christmas trees on Friday. The Arboretum is getting decked out in Christmas finery. Thanksgiving is next week. We're entering the holiday season even though temperatures are running in the mid-40s. This Thanksgiving I'll have a lot for which to be grateful. The daughter person and her fiancee spent much of this afternoon helping me (or maybe I was helping them) purge and organize the utility room in the basement. We had reached the point that we needed to move three or four things to get at any one thing. Our bridge hadn't yet collapsed, so to speak, but the area was showing the effects of a lack of maintenance. That's getting taken care of. I might once again look forward to, rather than dreading, entering the vicinity. Tonight's full moon might not be visible unless the clouds disperse. Here's an almost full version to enjoy, followed by a poem that reads as if it were written for today.

Like Coins, November

By Elizabeth Klise von Zerneck 

We drove past late fall fields as flat and cold

as sheets of tin and, in the distance, trees

were tossed like coins against the sky. Stunned gold

and bronze, oaks, maples stood in twos and threes:

some copper bright, a few dull brown and, now

and then, the shock of one so steeled with frost

it glittered like a dime. The autumn boughs

and blackened branches wore a somber gloss

that whispered tails to me, not heads. I read

memorial columns in their trunks; their leaves

spelled UNUM, cent; and yours, the only head . . . 

in penny profile, Lincoln-like (one sleeve,

one eye) but even it was turning tails

as russet leaves lay spent across the trails. 

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