season's end

I took a walk along the river today, and the dying of the season really hit me for the first time this year. Samhain is only days away, and I heard voices in the wind as it passed through the almost-bare trees. I couldn't quite make out what they were saying, but the voices were sad at times, almost moaning. Other times, they could have been crows' calls carried from far away, or perhaps a crowd cheering a ballgame, or children playing. But I knew they were none of those things.

Further along the trail, the tattoo a woodpecker played was a lively rhythm that echoed through the trees. Perhaps it was a message in its own version of Morse code: tap, tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, tap. Winter is coming.

Walking back home, I looked at the red leaves on the young oaks by the road, and remembered their debut as tiny leaflets seemingly just weeks ago. Was spring really that far back? It didn't seem possible. And yet spring seems a lifetime away now.

The land is readying for its long sleep when it will rest, and dream, before its renewal. The wind carries its lament along with the seeds it scatters and buries amongst the leaves, knowing that it brings about that renewal. Sweet dreams, Persephone, see you in the spring.