The day turned pink as the autumn colors gleamed in approaching sunrise. A fat bee slept on the screen, waiting to breakfast, I imagine, on the late season pollen. Marigolds and nasturtium still pop up, along with petunias. I went to a circus on Sunday, and this is what I saw:
No safety nets. Sheer drops that could end in disaster in a play premise that disaster has already happened. Traces depicted seven performers who took enormous risk as the audience watched with either breaths held, afraid to stir the air to cause a slip, or shrieking in response to the tension. The shrieker sat somewhere behind me.
Here is another situation, but as a viewer, there is less immediacy of danger:
A woodpecker drills into a tree. The day will tease with warmth, and later, the temperature in the week will plunge back down. I sit still here, except for my typing fingers, as the sound of breezes and trucks begin.
Sometimes driving in to work can be heartbreakingly breathtaking this time of year. A tree has shed its red leaves onto the highway, another is just starting to turn. Autumn, and its accompanying adjective, autumnal, carry weight, invoking age, splendor, a finality before the hush of winter snowfall. I have said this already, in another post.
This was one of the songs I listened to, “Morning Celebration” by Karunesh:
As always, here is Keats “To Autumn” read by Ben Wishaw.
And the text:
For me, Autumn means I let go of my manuscript, write words, not paragraphs, let email overtake my mornings. The practice of the summer has fled. My students start workshop in one class, and in another, we discuss Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s short story, “The Yellow Wallpaper.”
There is an abundance of readings and performances as the season gears up, and these days, the bus is packed.
I subsist some days on granola bars and coffee, before coming home an hour, now two, before bedtime. The cats are hungry, as am I, for dinner.
My dinner is leftovers, if I planned ahead, or grilled cheese. Soon
will come my ambition to roast squash, make soup. Autumn dreams of a kind.
The leaves are changing. More and more
I see red patches over-taking the green, even as the Google Doodle
has let us know, for two days now,
that autumn is here.
How fresh the green was
back in the spring, how voluptuous
the reds and purples of summer.
Autumn delivers fire to burn away growth.
Winter will cleanse out the palate,
give us a blank slate
to rest our eyes.