Late September

It is late September, one of my favorite times of year. It is always contested territory between the seasons and on a long walk it is easy to spot signs of summer's slow retreat and autumn's determined advance. The trees have not changed yet, but they are looking in the closet trying to decide what to wear -- the flaming red sweater, the amber gown, the nut brown shirt or the burgundy blouse. Occasionally I hear the splash and thud of walnuts falling from the treetops through leaves to the ground, or I see an early leaf flutter down and come to rest on the dry grass. In the fields, the green is mostly gone. Combines are kicking up dust in the bean fields and much of the corn has been cut for silage.
It can't be long until summer finally surrenders and the colored leaves become confetti for autumn's victory parade. Then there will be, perhaps, a few weeks for autumn to reign in splendor before the next struggle begins -- and we all already know who is going to win.
Of course, as they say in baseball (also coming to an end for all but a fortunate few), there is always next year.

On Second Thought

While we all wait for first frost
I watch her fight the lightest breeze
with slight success,
her only weapons
Two tiny, parchment-thin triangles –
pale yellow, ebony-edged –
Swinging on hinges hitched to her back.

I pity her as I observe
her struggle and foresee
how few days are left
Until frost fells her.
How little of the world
she shall ever know,
How feeble her accomplishments.
And yet I take my pity back;
she can fly, not I.

James Benedict
9/23/05