Observations: autumn’s harvest : Shelburne Free Press : https://shelburnefreepress.ca

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Observations: autumn’s harvest

There are certain constants in life (death, taxes): the sky is always dark at night, the air is always around us, the world keeps turning and the days keep passing by. When the darkness of the night sky turns from warm smoke to black ink, dotted with sparkling perforations; when the air moves from languid waves to a crisp bite, the last leafy aroma hidden below; when the daylight hours grow short, but time seems to span an infinity every day, then, we know it is October.
In Dufferin County, our seasons tend to merge with the other. A true spring is hard to come by, and usually comes after a few curious weeks of Summer. But Autumn always begins and ends in October. Its fixed but changing nature a beacon of familiarity, the winds of October bring reflection, the cleaning of cluttered corners and the first blustery gusts from Jack Frost. This is my favorite time to go walking and take in the transformation, one leaf at a time. Walking through town at first light, the dawn launches a column of light toward the stratosphere: the rich yellows and oranges of summer cooling to pale gold and ochre, giving a visual nudge to the cold air in the lungs.
Humans have this neat ability to adapt to any situation. We might be dragged, complaining and moaning to a change of scenery, to what seems like inclement weather, but once we get there, it's like we've never been anywhere else. Once we have grumbled our way outside, we are privy to a limited seating show of radiant colours and dynamic birdsong, trumpeting and cackling to herald out the last warm moments of fall; often dappled with juvenile snowflakes which melt before noon.
I am drawn to the harvest of October's trail landscape. Though muted compared to summer, it becomes a lush tapestry. Lingering yellow Black-eyed-Susans and periwinkle chicory line the trail, interspersed with tonnes of tiny apples on forgotten trees, each one different than the last. Rowan berries hang in their robust clusters, historically used as jam for holiday faire, birds still relying on their seeds for energy during the coming winter. Lower to the ground, we pull every last black raspberry, having certainly left enough for others on previous walks. My mouth sweetened, my eyes turn to the field: the Monarch's favorite wispy milkweed tendrils float their seeds on the swirling wind, their flight encouraging the hope of life anew.

By MK Martin

Post date: 2015-10-22 22:13:13
Post date GMT: 2015-10-23 02:13:13
Post modified date: 2015-10-30 17:06:42
Post modified date GMT: 2015-10-30 21:06:42