Autumn

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fe by the hero (as characterized up to this point); and never, ever would a black cat then, as suddenly, appear between the villain and the hero at this very point to explain the noise, a noise the villain actually buys — it sounded nothing like a cat. I mean, at this point the writers and director of this script and film have left reality and credibility so far behind that the only reason I’d finish watching this film is that I’ve paid good money to see it.</p><p id="982f">Two stars at best. I’m thinking: amateurish.</p><p id="40b2">Anyway, back to the tracker. The tracker will not kick an empty beer can, he will, silence personified, make it undetected all the way up to the prey where he will complete his mission, whatever that might be: killing for food perhaps, or catching for sale to a zoo, I don’t know.</p><p id="97e1">Following a fall-path slash trail, I become like the skilled tracker slash hunter. I don’t make a sound either. The forest itself has insulated the ground, strewn now with leaves and moss and pine needles and other sound-deadening organic stuff. No matter where I place my foot: dead soft and dead quiet.</p><p id="714c">And the smells, ah, the smells. Musty, say some. Alive I say, even though what you smell the most is death.</p><p id="abd9">“The fallen leaves that jewel the ground,” sings Robin Williamson. “They know the art of dying. And leave with joy their glad

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gold hearts, in the scarlet shadows lying.”</p><p id="9934">October Song. The first song Robin ever wrote he says somewhere. And so, too, says the song itself, which sets out with: “I’ll sing you this October song, Oh, there is no song before it. The words and tune are none of my own, for my joys and sorrows bore it.”</p><p id="5c2a">I have yet to figure out why, as a child, I felt more alive as the year came to a close than in spring — though, to be truthful, it was very hard no to feel brilliantly alive when the light green of early-June leaves shimmered and danced the sky as I bicycled by birch and elm and rowan on my way home from school, only a few days now till summer break.</p><p id="4fe2">I am an October child, perhaps that has something to do with it.</p><p id="c0d1">© Wolfstuff</p><div id="5f1c" class="link-block"> <a href="http://wolfstuff.com"> <div> <div> <h2>Wolfstuff</h2> <div><h3>So, who am I? Really really. I could tell you that I was born in northern Sweden during a snow storm, and subsequently…</h3></div> <div><p>wolfstuff.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*zxtIFriEf8RXbtzE)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

The Softest Footfall

Image by Author

The softest footfall upon wilting leaves red, brown, and golden

Autumn, nature’s muffler.

I’ve walked many a forest path, many of them not much more than an old trail and a hard one to follow at that; of all these paths my favorite one is the autumn one.

I’ve read that a good tracker, or hunter, can approach a potential prey completely unheard or unnoticed, especially if down-wind from the stalked. They always know, these hunters, where to place their feet. And they never, ever — as so often happen in cheap films — step on a dry twig or inadvertently kick an empty soup can or, heaven forbid, tip a glass bottle over so it breaks, all to alert their nemesis that they are no longer alone.

And just as an observational aside, you can watch 70–80 minutes of movie and the hero never, ever steps on dry twigs, or kicks empty bottles, never; so to suddenly, in the mounting climax of the plot, have him or her do this in an empty warehouse just fifty feet from the villain, is so stupidly and transparently written and staged for effect, and would never have been done in real life by the hero (as characterized up to this point); and never, ever would a black cat then, as suddenly, appear between the villain and the hero at this very point to explain the noise, a noise the villain actually buys — it sounded nothing like a cat. I mean, at this point the writers and director of this script and film have left reality and credibility so far behind that the only reason I’d finish watching this film is that I’ve paid good money to see it.

Two stars at best. I’m thinking: amateurish.

Anyway, back to the tracker. The tracker will not kick an empty beer can, he will, silence personified, make it undetected all the way up to the prey where he will complete his mission, whatever that might be: killing for food perhaps, or catching for sale to a zoo, I don’t know.

Following a fall-path slash trail, I become like the skilled tracker slash hunter. I don’t make a sound either. The forest itself has insulated the ground, strewn now with leaves and moss and pine needles and other sound-deadening organic stuff. No matter where I place my foot: dead soft and dead quiet.

And the smells, ah, the smells. Musty, say some. Alive I say, even though what you smell the most is death.

“The fallen leaves that jewel the ground,” sings Robin Williamson. “They know the art of dying. And leave with joy their glad gold hearts, in the scarlet shadows lying.”

October Song. The first song Robin ever wrote he says somewhere. And so, too, says the song itself, which sets out with: “I’ll sing you this October song, Oh, there is no song before it. The words and tune are none of my own, for my joys and sorrows bore it.”

I have yet to figure out why, as a child, I felt more alive as the year came to a close than in spring — though, to be truthful, it was very hard no to feel brilliantly alive when the light green of early-June leaves shimmered and danced the sky as I bicycled by birch and elm and rowan on my way home from school, only a few days now till summer break.

I am an October child, perhaps that has something to do with it.