As I sit here on these wooden stairs and look around me, I get a funny sensation. Autumn is almost over and summer is long gone. As this realization sets in, I think of all the things I am to wait two more seasons for. No more swimming in the creek or having epic water-balloon fights. No more biking or four wheeling in the mud. No more taking long walks to the gravel pit and feeling that soft, summer sun on my face. There’s no more summer for you or me.
Instead, we have this in-between time that I have just now come to perceive this year. There is an insignificant chill about the air that numbs your fingers and ears. Almost every leaf has fallen from the trees and has yellowed like banana browns. They litter the ground, some in piles, and others solitarily strewn about. Once in awhile, the little golden fronds will be lifted up by gusts of wind, be blown around, and fall once again to the no longer lush forest floor. The wind chimes are greatly pushed around by the ferocious winds that they seem at war with each other, in a constant battle.
Another leaf falls from a tree, then another. One skitters across the still porch and descends off the edge.
All of a sudden, the wind gets forceful and tenacious, and shakes the tree house I sit on. The stature moans and creaks; it sways on its stilts.
Quietness takes an abrupt toll, and the wind chimes have stopped singing. Their melodic tunes can no longer be heard. This silence only lasts a minute, and then the heavy breeze is at war with the wind chimes again. They call out their song of peace, but the wind doesn’t listen, and the chimes keep trying.
Up above, the wind rustles through the trees and the few leaves that still remain, making them dance to the song; the clinking of metal against metal.
This is like all one big performance—the coming of winter. It is for everyone to observe. All you have to do is listen, and nature will tell you its story.
Instead, we have this in-between time that I have just now come to perceive this year. There is an insignificant chill about the air that numbs your fingers and ears. Almost every leaf has fallen from the trees and has yellowed like banana browns. They litter the ground, some in piles, and others solitarily strewn about. Once in awhile, the little golden fronds will be lifted up by gusts of wind, be blown around, and fall once again to the no longer lush forest floor. The wind chimes are greatly pushed around by the ferocious winds that they seem at war with each other, in a constant battle.
Another leaf falls from a tree, then another. One skitters across the still porch and descends off the edge.
All of a sudden, the wind gets forceful and tenacious, and shakes the tree house I sit on. The stature moans and creaks; it sways on its stilts.
Quietness takes an abrupt toll, and the wind chimes have stopped singing. Their melodic tunes can no longer be heard. This silence only lasts a minute, and then the heavy breeze is at war with the wind chimes again. They call out their song of peace, but the wind doesn’t listen, and the chimes keep trying.
Up above, the wind rustles through the trees and the few leaves that still remain, making them dance to the song; the clinking of metal against metal.
This is like all one big performance—the coming of winter. It is for everyone to observe. All you have to do is listen, and nature will tell you its story.
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