Style & Leisure
TRAVEL
Echoes of Autumn, Whispers of Winter Daddy Long Legs in the bath tub maneuvers along the edge on
crooked legs, his gray-brown coat pulled around him. Tucked under his arm is his latest novel. Have you read it? It’s woolly worm weather. I have a friend who’s a traffic cop. She makes sure the critters can cross the road safely. She has one little fellow curled in a ball and tucked under logs in the woodshed, ready to hibernate. I wake up to no bird song. Warblers, swallows, and orioles have all headed south. I didn’t say goodbye. Birds don’t have calendars. Or maybe they do: they’re astronomical. Instead, I’m left to treasure night sounds— owls: horned, hoot, screech. What poet is the poet for November and December? Why, Dylan Thomas is the one I think of. “Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” He’s talking about death, of course, but also of the fading of the light. Ice tea for a midmorning drink? Not 32 | November-December 2021
any more. Toasty hot chai instead, bursting with herbal aromas, even a little white pepper, almost too hot to drink. It wraps itself around me and gives me a hug. Why, it’s Nov. 19, the full beaver moon. Doug has a telescope, can see the craters of the moon. Daffodil bulbs, scruffy and dirt-edged, almost didn’t get planted. If I do get them in, all too soon they’ll morph into bright yellow flags of hope. Nunavut, my writing cabin with its yards-long desk, still occupied, but not for long. My cutoff temperature is 40 degrees, sending me indoors to my cozy chair by the wood stove. November, according to Ecclesiastes, “the time to pluck up that which was planted.” Chief among them: the last of the green tomatoes, those precious globes that will eventually translate into spaghetti sauce, chili, salsa and lite tomato soup. It’s way past time to dig the garlic. Let’s pick a dry day. Hmmm, the heavy, dirt-crusted heads cry out to be sketched.
I indulge them gladly. I choose the biggest cloves to plant, pushing them into their muddy graves. What shall we have to eat, now that autumn’s here? Volunteer acorn squash stuffed with apple, onion, and cheese? Yum. The silence is heavy. I can inhale it, breathe it out softly, hold my breath and listen. What do I hear? Silence. Sit in my rocker by the fire and be. Waiting. Waiting for what? Wind that comes at just the right time, chasing me into my corduroy shirt. Nip of late fall: Irreverent wind wraps itself around the edge of the house, tapping, heaving, huffing, shoving. It stirs up something in me. But what? Who knows? Maybe it will tell me.
sue spirit Writes poetry and essays about nature, spirituality, writing and travel. She has a little cabin in the mountains. degreesoffreedom@frontier.com aawmag.com
