Autumn, a restless season

Perhaps it's the energy visible and vibrating in flaming orange, red, and yellow leaves. Perhaps it's the gusty winds that blow more frequently than not. Perhaps it's the hustle and bustle of farmers getting harvest done before snow covers the fields. Perhaps it's the birds and waterfowl and insects that migrate South from our North Country. When I lived in Massachusetts, an urge for going was felt first by bluefish and, later, by striped bass as they headed for Wintering waters around the Chesapeake and points South. It was often a dilemma of the best kind deciding whether to chase departing stripers or greet waterfowl arriving from the North.

maples are alive and vibrating with color

Photo by J. Harrington

Most of the music I associate with autumn relates to restless movement. Here's a few examples:

• Four Strong Winds
• Urge for Going
• Leaves That Are Green
• The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

Summer is a hazy, lazy season. Winter's cold and snow often slow life down as if made of molasses. Spring, when it finally arrives, bursts briefly with energy and then everything's green and shady (see lazy, hazy). Autumn is when I feel most alive with way more fun to be had than time to fit it all in.

Driving through a shower last evening, we watched several frogs hopping across the wet road, probably heading for Wintering grounds where, half or more frozen, they'll spend the freezing season buried under mud or leaves. Some autumn migrations are fairly local.

Song for Autumn

by Mary Oliver

 

In the deep fall

don’t you imagine the leaves think how

comfortable it will be to touch

the earth instead of the

nothingness of air and the endless

freshets of wind? And don’t you think

the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,

warm caves, begin to think

 

of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep

inside their bodies? And don’t you hear

the goldenrod whispering goodbye,

the everlasting being crowned with the first

tuffets of snow? The pond

vanishes, and the white field over which

the fox runs so quickly brings out

its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its

bellows. And at evening especially,

the piled firewood shifts a little,

longing to be on its way.

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