Sunday, October 25, 2015


    I looked up into trees lined with fall colors, backlit by blue skies. A solitary leaf hit me in the face and continued to the ground. I picked it up and looked it over up close. Nothing overly spectacular, but lined with its own unique intricacies. Its midrib flowed top to bottom with lines and marks of age branching off like a family tree with many twists and redirection. Holes had been eaten through by past inhabitants. Their nourishment had left scars on their lifeblood. Same principle with people; leaving a collective mark on the good earth.

    Another leaf fell my way, this time a smaller and much younger leaf. It being without the scars, but still at end of life with winter approaching. A late bloomer, evidently. Its color already faded, the ravages of time now working against it.

    I am drawn to the old, scarred soul. It's lived long enough to tell a few tales. And it helped a few kindred spirits along the way to flourish.


Monday, October 19, 2015

The Golden Hour

Yellow and orange leaves blow across the rutted path. A few browns appear in the mix.

Lingering scents from a fireplace drift in from close by. Dogs bark in the distance.

A hawk cries out from the covering while watching its hiding place disappear, one gust at a time.

Winds whistle through the trees. Its sound is much different that a summer breeze during which the greenery clings to life.

Crackles of sound energize the mountain trail; Dying leaves tumble across the ground, whisper their last breaths. Their joints show signs of wear, but their multi colored faces shine in their finest hour.

A new resting place, just before they become part of the rich foundation for next spring’s revival.

Blue skies look a deeper blue; shadows seem a bit darker.

A chill is in the air, and it has settled into the joints of the forest. Death is imminent as its season approaches. It’s a relief from this lifetime of struggle. The golden hour can be cruel; its harsh features of age and experience overlap youth’s clean lines of expectancy and hope.

The cycle continues, unrelenting, at times like a forbidden river flowing during the midnight hour, seen by no one, but carving its path none the less.