Autumn Prose

The mesmerizing log-splitter convert thick chunks of trees into aromatic wedges for the stove, Sam rushing across the living room floor to catch sight of the grain carts or combines rumbling down the gravel road, the sharp bright autumn sky, tall boots, hearing the boys wake early in the morning to tramp over frosty turf and leaves with their guns on their shoulders, cutting up venison in the kitchen and wrapping it for the freezer, the tip of my nose bright and chilled with the snap of early morning air, the sweet and bitter rush of cold air invading my lungs, two pairs of socks, the way warm food sizzling in the kitchen gets more savory and inviting the colder it is outside, standing in the freshly shorn fields and listening to the fall wind worry the lifeless leaves and trumpet the coming of snow with every breath, planning resplendent and engorging menus with which we will laden the Thanksgiving table, cold fingers and toes to tickle each other’s necks, plants and greenery buttoning up against the cold and retreating into the heart of the earth, the myriad shades of brown, stocking caps, trees, rigid and shadowy pillars, casting severe elaborate shapes on the leaf-mottled floor, the smoky, earthy tang that accompanies the boys every time they come in for dinner, long sleeves, birds singing the autumn symphony, and frost scattering its wonderful lace-work abundantly. Summer is glorious melody, winter is lilting song, spring is ecstatic whistling, but autumn is magnificent harmony.