We have had frost and then Indian Summer, and then snow and a second sweet Indian Summer again, with the grass still green but crisp, the leaves––orange and gold and amber––still clinging to the boughs and branches, their silhouettes perfect against the early evening sunset, as they should be at this time of year. The air is cool on our walks but heavy with the fragrance of tired, brown earth, and the steadily falling and drifting Autumn quilt from above.
Autumn is not my favorite time of year, but it is rich with poetry and magic.
This evening I watched a timid and delicate breeze, maple-scented and playful, pluck a single leaf from the ground, spin it around on its invisible axis, and flutter it across our path, flapping it like the wings of a golden butterfly in the last rays of the sun. Duncan stopped, his ears perked high, and watched for the emergence of a mouse or one of the small birds that like to dart from the shrubs, flapping a moment before his dancing nose before hurrying for cover among the deep shadows of the trees. When no creature appeared, he seemed content, as I was, to witness the mystery and delight of the season and relish something far beyond his comprehension.
At moments like these I wonder if it would be wrong to have the power to explain it to him, or if it would be a blessing to see it through his eyes, to watch without question or hope of explanation, and simply experience it.