All the Micro-Seasons of Autumn

Poetry

There are seasons between seasons without names except for what each person calls them. There are early autumn cold snaps when ice lingers on rooftops until nearly noon, and only a few flowers thrive — calendula and cosmos, blooming despite the frost

Hardly anyone walks as far as the lake once November arrives, and rain threatens to linger all through the morning and into the eve. Only serious runners and owners of pent-up dogs brave the weather. There is hardly ever a boat on the lake but for the occasional regatta of rowing shells.

Those who dare to swim resemble seals in their wetsuits lingering in the shallow waters. I admire their tenacity but have no wish to follow into the frigid lake as we creep toward the first river floods and the random early snowfalls. Who knows what sort of winter we will have this year? It’s harder to speculate.

Instead, I interact with neighbors while observing the leaves that have fallen in the all-night symphony of wind and the rhythms of rain. One neighbor showed me the mushrooms he’d gathered from other neighbors’ yards, hoping to propagate them in his gardens. He wonders at his love of lichens, mosses, and mushrooms.

And later, I cross paths with one of my favorite neighbors, whom I seldom see these days. She points out her dog, Clark, who lies perfectly still, watching as an anxious squirrel darts from tree to tree. Clark's a hunter, she says. He's a small dog. He never tries to chase down his prey. I tell her he seems like a stealthy cat, and she agrees.

While we chat, the dappled clouds retreat, revealing a bright blue sky, and the winds keep swirling through the almost bare trees.

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