Saturday, October 20, 2007


There is no season when such pleasant and sunny spots
may be lighted on, and produce so pleasant an effect on
the feelings, as now in October.
(Nathaniel Hawthorne)

The last of Summer's days and not a moment of it to be wasted. Thankfully Duncan woke me early, and while he dined on venison and lamb I sipped a cup of tea and watched the cats play in the sunlight streaming onto the floor at the foot of my desk. The plants, after our long, dark and northward-facing year at The Breakers, have erupted in greenery. My avocado tree had doubled in width and the canopy of leaves and sprouts at its top remind me of a jester's hat. The rubber plant in the front room, after years of looking like a wrestler, short and squat, wide but sturdy, has hit a growth spurt that I marvel at nearly every day. Where only three months ago my spider plant resembled a Daddy Long Legs, it now looks–if not quite like a tarantula– wolf-ish at the least. This office where I keep my computer and books has blossomed with greenery even as the world on the other side of the glass has oranged and browned.

Once tea and breakfast were taken care of, I dressed in shorts and a t-shirt and Duncan and I left for the park. We skirted its edge, cut across the library lawn and made for the lake. The weekend and morning lake-goers seem a much more diverse and casual bunch than those that ring its shore in the evenings after work. Were it not for the color of the leaves, it would've seemed a perfect June morning with close blue skies and sun warming my face and neck. We found one perfect tree made of honey and gold and light and sat under it for quite a while, enjoying the smell of Autumn and the dream of Summer. It was the best of both worlds. Neither of us wanted to go inside so once we circuited the lake we made for The Glen, where Autumn has definitely taken its toll: the trees look abused in their nakedness, their bone-branches jutting and pale, their clothing ripped and forgotten, litter on the ground at their feet. Duncan made the most of it, though. He seems to love the sound of the leaves under his feet almost as much as he loves it when I scoop them into my hands and rain them down around his head. He jumped and ran and spun in the air as if knowing that tomorrow brings us wet and cold and wind...and maybe something more. Not that he'll mind; he loves all the seasons equally.

October is a chameleon, playing us with promises of sunshine one minute, punishing us with cold and damp the next. I know better than to trust her. There is green before our eyes, and magnificent light from above and below but just behind it and rushing all around it, just out of reach are drops of gold and the harvest breath of the wind. Look carefully and you'll see it.

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