An early morning autumn drive leads down country roads, splitting farmers’ fields freshly harvested. A fog hangs heavy in the air, tangible and sweet. The silent morning is further insulated by this condensation. As the sun ascends on the horizon, an orange glow is cast across the golden pastures. Then, drifting gradually over a recently reaped cornfield, a thicker cloud-like fog is discernible. Two thin wisps of thick mist, pure white and substantial. They appear as ghostly fingers, reaching out for touch. They swell and become like a veil, pulled over the surface of the day made so tranquil.
The end of a season is upon us,
One instinctively yoked to death and decay.
Yet, lavishness exists here;
A great symphony of loveliness and delicateness,
Perceived by the rapt observer.
Rushing autumn wind in ears,
Multiplied by the momentum of the cyclist.
Whistling softly, cooling perspiring skin.
The scent of dying chlorophyll wafts softly,
Coupled with the aromas of the harvest:
The tripartite sweetness of corn, soy and hay.
This peaceful country road
Is enfolded by furiously red, overbearing Sumacs.
Spinning wheels whir and hum,
The constant noise punctuated melodiously
By flittering leaves in the wood beyond.
A falcon perches lightly, eyeing its prey.
This symphony of scent, sight and sound,
Transforms this season of death
Into a period of glory and splendor.
A mainspring of rest and renewal,
For anyone willing to seize it.