At 3:30 in the afternoon, the light is already beginning to
decant, pouring itself over the ground in long golden fingers. Shadows stretch
long and longer still, until all that remains of the daylight is gathered high
in the dome of the sky. Outside my window the trees stand in varying stages of
undress. Most of the red maples have lost their leaves but the branches of many
of the sugar maples are still clad in buttery yellow. Larches have turned the
color of caramel and oak leaves boast shades of burnt orange and leather brown.
The yard is leaf strewn. Now and then a sturdy gust of wind
blows them skittering and chattering across the road or into the briars at the
edge of the lawn where they catch and wave like dry little hands. Birds in similar colors – the brilliant red
cardinal, the scarlet breasted house finch, the soft brown sparrow, the
late-lingering goldfinch – flit about in the underbrush or come to the feeder
in pairs to feast on seed. They do not sing the sun up in the morning as they
do in summer. They limit their vocalizations to chirps and cheeps and leave
the mornings to the crows and the jays whose strident calls vie with the
rooster next door.
I find myself imitating the changes I see out of doors. I
rise later like the sun and get sleepy earlier. I feel the urge to stock up on
food the way the squirrels are doing, to eat more at one sitting like the
birds. I walk less briskly, curl up on the sofa more often, slip into silence
and contemplation more frequently. Conversations with trees and rocks and water
become slower, less audible, as though the elements themselves were slipping
into a semi-conscious state. Sometimes I feel the urge to pull the quilt of the
clouded sky close around my shoulders and drift off to sleep with the bear and the
caterpillar and the cinnamon colored chipmunk.
I’d do that except I don’t want to miss the winter. I love the wind that whips around the corner
of the house and shouts down the chimney. I want to be out of doors when the
sun comes up and splashes diamonds across the first snowfall. I want to catch
snowdrops on my tongue and snowshoe through the quiet woods. I want to feel the
bitter bite of ice and wind then assuage it by sitting inside before a blazing
fire. There’s too much life and beauty in winter to waste months sleeping.
Perhaps that’s why we humans stay awake.
Thank you, Hilary!
