Looks like summer decided to not stop by this year,
and fall snuck in while we were still hoping.
I went mushroom hunting earlier this week, and all of a sudden the mushrooms were much harder to find against the backdrop of fallen leaves and branches. I did find some, but even that season seems to be winding down.
And while I was bent over, plucking a mushroom from the duff of the forest floor, a sound started in low, a bit like a crowd cheering in the far distance. I looked up, and the sound picked up, hit the trees. It was the whoosh of a high wind, one that you don’t feel on your face. One that only hits the treetops. It’s a sound I associate with summer or winter, when things seem to happen on different layers, not fall.
It’s a sound that makes me want to not go back to the city, to spend as long as I can in the forest, because it’s the only place that’s quiet enough to hear it. It’s a hollow, eerie sound, that wind. It somehow goes right through you, without even touching you. Like layers of fog in winter.
It’s a subtle reminder of what it is to be human, of where we are in the grand scheme of things.
So bring on fall, winter, harsher weather. Let us feel alive.
But an Indian Summer, with more of those high winds, would be even better.