As I am with many things, also too am I conflicted about autumn.
Should
I lament its brevity or rejoice in its beauty? Must I cling to the passing
season or welcome the ritual of death that it renews?
Tonight
I was reminded of autumn's beauty and impermanence during a vigorous sojourn
among the sycamores and sugar maples, during an 80-minute walk down the canal
feeder trail among the white oak and weeds.
The walking
path rests above the Miami River waterway that once served canal boats decades
ago as man and beast moved goods from Sidney and other points to the Miami-Erie
Canal.
The
rustling of the breeze and intermittent calls of birds joined the seasonal
symphony, as my feet shuffled through the crunchy carpet that was once the
canopy.
The only other sound was the
distant whine of wheels and motors, a fitting juxtaposition with the canal trough below, the
modern connected to the eternal.
Seeing
autumn unfold is like saying goodbye to friends.
I don't
know why some maples and oaks and poplar and paw paws still retain their
armaments, while others willingly have ceded their cover, accepting winters' fate.
Stubborn
trees aside, the empty multitude let in an array of light, but not enough to
soak up the morning dampness that will hasten the leaves' decay, a crucial step
in the forests' regeneration.
The
morning light plays visual tricks, revealing everything so that nothing stands
out. But the evening tone mutes the muddy background, magnifying the beauty
of the turning trees.
In darkness, beauty builds, no spotlight required.
At one point, I deemed it necessary to leave the asphalt ribbon and connect with the dirt,
traipsing a trail carved into the earth.
To do
so, I had to outwit a jealous branch of thorns guarding the path below a golden
ceiling. My first reward was being allowed to traverse a dry gully funneling nothing but air toward
the river below.
At waters' edge, I paused to enjoy the languid stream
succumbing to gravity, flowing south toward the Ohio River.
The
world may move fast but time on earth moves slow.
Back on
the natural scar, every so often a tree had been felled, a barrier
reminding me to slow down but still keep going forward.
Where the water widened, a side trail connects to a sandbar, which begged to be bothered. While standing there calmly, I saw a deer grazing in the island of grasses and reeds.
Sight betrays distance -- is that 50, 60, 70 yards away? I
can't tell, but I am far enough away for my feet to rake across the rocks for a
few steps without alerting the animal.
Then I paused, standing quietly for a few minutes before the deer finally caught the scent of an interloper. At that point, the deer surveyed its safety and decided to bound into the underbrush on the other side of the water.
And I made my return to the natural path before climbing up the hillside to begin my trip back to the trail's beginning.
There
were some experiences to be appreciated in both directions.
Twice I heard the flump-whomp-plunk of a walnut making its Newtonian plummet, bouncing off branches and whirring through leaves before splashing into the rivers' flow, the ripples accelerating upon impact before dissolving as quickly as they came.
As I was about to leave, the roar of a nearby freight train racing over the bridge signaled that life keeps moving on, here and elsewhere.
