Autumn

It’s been several weeks since the last hummingbird darted from the feeder. Across the garden, yellow maple leaves float in place of swallowtail butterflies, then stick to wet, flat stones on the garden path. It rained hard last night. Morning’s first light filtered through a lead gray sky, and was welcomed by a lone wren singing solo. Last night, I listened to a single cricket give what sounded like his final serenade. A requiem for summers passing. There will be warmer sunny days, before winter closes her hand on autumn’s time. But for now, a bumble bee’s dance on hyssop is over, the butterfly battles have ceased, and dragonfly patrols just above garden blooms have ended.

The hillsides have offered up this season’s palette of fall colors and paint the earth with yellows, reds, and rust. Trees of the forest feel like a gathering of friends—one last celebration before deep slumber. The trail this morning is hushed, as though everything is listening intently. Leaves are softened from the rain and my footsteps are quiet. I am not so careful where I walk today, a much more destructive force has preceded me, and there is nothing left for a boot print to harm.

The long migration has ended for another season and birds that remain seem to be living in a neighborhood abandoned. But no, they are the gatekeepers. Spring brings with her avian refugees, pilgrims, immigrants, and opportunists of all sorts. Not as many as years before, but still they come, driven by the desire to survive and perpetuate their kind in a diminished land. They have not come to merely escape from something, but into something. As Joseph Wood Crutch wrote: “They are part of the greatest community, not of man alone, but of everything that shares with us the great adventure of being alive!”

So autumn is here, and she prepares the earth for rest. At times, I too, can hear her voice, feel her comforting wisdom, and know a peace in the realization of how much will remain undone when the season ends.