Season’s Change.


Striding out, this time of year, brings almost too much to me.

Cerulean skies against the bright white puffs of meager clouds.

Stiff northern breezes whistling their chill through tall pines and trembling aspen.

Creek sounds diminishing, hazel tarn-beds the remnants of a gathering place.

Dried stalks of this year’s flower crop, colors fading save for the last valiant lupine lining man’s paths deep in the woods.

Frosted turf punctuated by purple and white gentian, harbingers of the season’s change.

Shadows lengthening by the southern turn of the sun, warmth at once fading against the air currents, but enough to heat the silent stones.

Meadow grass transforming to brittle gold, carpet plants a fiery red.

Ice fields cupped and running, edged in pink and black.

The first flakes of snow, dancing down to touch earth, their arms folding upon their light landing.

Dirt trail, dust trail, sand trail, rock trail, stair trail, moraine trail, no trail, find your own way.

Shorter days, longer sleeves.

But the quiet never changes.

At the end of the day, I perch on the warmed rock, overlooking the twinkling lake, a crescent moon rising in a clear sky edged in orange along the horizon.

And I smile at the change, both within and without, looking into the heavens and searching for my next path.

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