Light turns
to darkness.
The long summer days
linger
no longer.
Snow
closes out
the last days
of November,
heavy and cold,
promising
winter is here.
Winter is now.
This is a time
of transition,
change,
reflection,
survival,
or death.
Colours shift
from lush greens
into yellows and browns
as leaves
display fall finery,
then float
sail
flutter
down to the dirt
of decomposed leaves.
Still
the forest can feel
surprisingly green,
draped in mosses,
carpeted with ferns,
decorated with evergreens.
Bright, cheerful skies
(on smoke free days at least)
give way
to a wintery wash of greys,
streaming into one another,
like a painting
with too much water,
then tilted
so the colours flow together.
A bright spot of
pink,
yellow,
or orange
keep the grey
from monotony.
The light of fall can feel
mysterious,
shrouding the woods
in spooky,
silent
fog.
Or it can be
magical,
making the wild woods
glow in glory
for a few short hours
before darkness descends.
In the wetlands,
swans soar down
to a swampy lake,
their honking incongruous
with their grace in the air,
Snowbirds reunited,
a honking cacophony
of old friends
catching up on the gossip.
Fall rains
swell the rivers,
summoning
salmon to follow
the scent of home.
The rocky sand bar
is greatly diminished,
and soon will require a toll to enter:
A toll of soaked feet.
A toll I may chose
not to pay.
Grassy islands
are now underwater,
rippling with the water’s flow.
Willows,
alders,
cottonwoods,
those nearest the banks,
show their tenacity
as they
hold
in the force of the currents
that flood them.
And hold,
as the water excavates their roots.
And hold
as long as they can,
if they can.
Channels that were dry
now fill
with murky water,
water that carries with it
the mighty mountainside,
piece
by miniscule
piece.
Change happens fast
over shortening days.
Morning frost,
and dragon-breath
swiftly gives way
to sun-warmed shoulders.
I’m grateful for the
crisp,
spicy
air.
From summer
into winter.
From one place
to another.
And for some,
from life
into death.
Plenty gives way
to scarcity.
Energy turns
to rest.
Winter’s chill will challenge
the young,
the inexperienced,
the old
and the weak.
Many
will not survive
to see spring.
Those that die
will help others
live on.
Spawning salmon
feed the forest,
and the forest
feeds baby salmon.
A tree,
toppled by wind and snow,
becomes a nurse log,
nurturing creatures,
a home for many,
before slowly
turning
to
soil.
An uprooted tree,
torn away,
roots and all
carried downstream,
shelters the life
of the river.
And I wander the woods,
in the fog
and the mist,
leaving footsteps
in frost,
and now
snow.
Then I too
seek shelter,
and warmth,
and reflection,
a quieter time,
in the season
of darkness,
as I wait
for the return
of the
light.
Comentários