This is the morning after the first frost. The air is crisp and cold, and still. The birds talk joyously about their winter plans, and the leaves crackle when they dive from the trees. They tuck and roll and they dance together, three or four, spinning around and up and down, till they land in bed -- a deep mattress of decaying leaves, where they will sleep away the cold.
There is no thought of death this morning though for weeks the battle raged. The Indian Summer clung tightly to the trees, kept fanning the sun to keep us warm; but now the frost has come and summmer has migrated. Those in Chile will be happy to see him come. But here, finally, the world is at peace with autumn -- the world rests in a contented defeat -- as if this is what it wanted all along.
And this is how I want to feel.
How much I wish this morning would return so that I might enjoy it with the awareness of it's beauty. How many days pass by in which I don't even glance out my window.
ReplyDeleteIt's good to know not everyone has commited such a crime. Your words make me wish for time gone by, so that I might have spent it with better appreciation of what is just beyond my door.