The Tipping Point

Besides the autumn poets sing,
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the haze.
(Emily Dickinson)

Duncan and I have spent two glorious afternoons wading ankle-deep among the leaves, their sound underfoot glorious and heart-breaking all at once, the fortune cookie voices they contained all summer finally given sound and reason as their bodies are broken by our passing steps. I have watched the colors change slowly, keeping my watchful eyes on the maples and cottonwoods, always the last to change. The elms, weak and without hope or courage, gave up their bounty in September, but the cottonwoods and maples have held true, their spirits more like mine––optimistic and full of dreams. But this morning I spotted their first changing, so I stood a long moment, plucking with my eyes, the soda can yellows sprouting among their lush canopy in much the same way I watch Ken stand at the mirror and pick out the very first graying hairs at his temples.

Two days of warm, windless afternoons and cool, pleasant evenings, the scents of burgers and chicken on the grills in direct defiance to the cold and snow that is coming, as early as Wednesday we are told. We have reached the tipping point and soon the color all around will be replaced with snow, exciting and bland all at once. Too soon there will be too few leaves on the trees and the wind will find our warmest spots, poking and prodding until it forces us back inside where it will howl curses of cowardice at us. I am not looking forward to it. As much as Autumn hurts my heart, Winter is even more difficult. Duncan will see me through it, though; his enthusiasm for the flakes and drifts and whitewash as tremendous as my love of the sun and sweat and Russian Olives.

Bless my good dog and his love of all things.