6:57 a.m. 48 degrees, wind SSE 7 mph, aspen crowns in perpetual motion, air streaming through yellow-green rivers; chasing leaves off the ground. Sky: wind-rinsed and refreshed, waning half-moon, tilted east, behind gauzy clouds on the move, a peek-a-boo celestial body. The air crisp as a Northern Spy. A quiet morning. No sign of the red-shouldered hawk. Although the air feels like a departure, dashing through the Hollow at a steady clip, its direction says otherwise. A big, powerful flier, the hawk may have left regardless, plowing wind like a Russian icebreaker. Permanent streams: puddle prone, barely a pulse. Wetlands: without mist, an aerial hijacking; deer and coyote paths through tan reeds, straight lines connecting critical points, a lesson in three-dimensional geometry; no wasted energy (or time); unlike my thoughts, which seem to roam everywhere and at will, wandering not an option when resource-limited and hungry. Across the marsh, blue jay antics in the spire of spruce, indefatigably calling to no one in particular (as far as I can tell). Pond: shoreline attended by juncos; surface attended by wind. I haven't heard the wren in a fortnight; the catbird in a week.
Equinox in hand: captivated by big-toothed aspen leaf that floats down in front of me, lands face-up on the brown road, palm-sized and seasonally embroidered and embellished—yellow, gold, crimson, orange, three shades of green, browning on the margins. In a futile attempt to preserve fall color, I ironed leaves between wax paper pieces when I was in fifth grade. Some leaves singed along the edge, began to smoke. Others faded or dried. Wax melted, hardened, cracked, escaped. Ironing board and floor a big mess. My mother, a house wren of nerves, was not pleased.
On November 8, 1956, when I was in third grade, I wrote a limited-edition book, Why Leaves Change Color, held together by brass split-pins and illustrated with original crayon drawings, mostly goldfish and flowers. In the short, hand-printed book, I spelled vegetable in three different ways: vegitable, vegatable, vegetible. And shoehorned an "n" into twigs (more than once), as in kinglets hover at the tips of twings. I addressed apples and potatoes, flowers and groundwater, and described the kitchen fishbowl at some length. Nowhere did I mention fall foliage, which may be why I cannot stop writing about it now . . .
Last night, just after the Rays disposed of the Yankees in the fifth game of the American League Division Series, coyotes made a mockery of the night, high-pitched, drawn-out paeans that entered through an open bedroom window. My dogs turned toward the source, ears up; I opened more windows, savoring the voices of neighbors I rarely see.