AUTUMN

The call of a painted pheasant resounds throughout the Autumn countryside. I turn from my rack-a-day world and escape to a world beyond, a world of transformation. I leave behind my house and family. Butch and I strike off on our own, past the rickety old fence, along the dirt road and onto a cow-path through the underwood. The forest lore is louder and we are drawn onward.

Butch tosses his head about and sniffs the air. He too is glad to get away, away with himself. A red squirrel chatters noisily and scolds him. We part company as he bounds off to find this tiny animal and defend his side of the argument.

The woods are like music to me. They sing an enchanting song. They call "Come. Come and play with me among the leaves. Come smell the air and hear the wind in the trees."

I walk onward. Below me lies a carpet of color - red, brown, gold, yellow - a patchwork quilt prepared for me. Now and then I see a tiny cluster of toadstools, seemingly made by Nature as a protection for the tiny fairies of the soil when raindrops fall from the heavens. Like the turrets of medieval towers they spring up from among the leaves.

I breathe the air and am filled with such sweet perfume. The trees sway to and fro, creaking and laughing to see me acting so. They look down upon me, their heads arrayed with Autumn colors and their crowns adorned by Jack Frost's paintbrush. I trip merrily onward, the leaves rustling beneath my feet as I draw step on step.

The path opens before me. Beyond, I spy a rolling field made mellow by the summer sun. I come to a broken fence, which frames the field. The maple trees lean over the railing talking to the grain, like housewives conversing in the backyard. As I stand looking out there, the wind swells and the golden grain whispers it's reply to the trees.

A roadway has been made by the continuous passing of tractor wheels. In the Spring and during the Summer months the farmer crossed here to cultivate his land and sow the tiny seeds. I take this tractor trail and find myself on the adjacent side of the land leading back into the woods.

Here Butch rejoins me, having given up his quarrel with Chip as a lost cause. He carries his head high and with an appearance of pride in having set up a good defense for himself.

For a while we walk on in silence, contemplating the splendor and sweetness surrounding us. Then to our ears comes the sound of lapping waters. A tiny creek winds it's way through the forest, meandering to a nearby lake. The water flows quickly, trying to reach it's destination before Winter breathes upon it's shores and chills it's bed.

Butch laps the cool waters. A small whiff of wind makes him suddenly raise his head. A pair of ducks glides downstream. Because the wind blows towards us, we are able to observe them unnoticed. They move silently and diligently, the drake leading. His head majestically thrust upward while his mate follows close behind. They soon discover us and exit in a quick flutter of wings.

We turn and walk upstream. A few hundred yards finds us at the orchard where Autumn has already visited. The ripened fruit hangs on the branches pulling them ground ward. Remnants of the pickers remain. Ladders stretch up tree trunks and bushel baskets lay on the ground, overflowing with the red surplus. One can smell the cider and see the winepress. Even now my thoughts race forward to the harvest festival and enchantment cast by the pale moon. My heart swells and I become joyful thinking of it.

But look! Already twilight walks the land. I turn. Butch and I leave this world and move homeward.