I took myself for a slow walk along the Carson this morning.
My new, old friend Cottonwood was boasting all about his autumn new coat, all glittery and gold. Ahead and closer to River, Willow’s waving tresses seemed tentative, not so patiently posturing for her turn, and Sage, his scent steadfast in the morning’s damp held his ground.
And River, in her slow, mosey-like fashion, murmured a melencholy song of Autumn’s gentle decline.
Stepping along, I took in the sharp scent of russet leaves mustering their presence, and then, just the slightest whiff of piñon smoke bearing a subtle bite of chill.
The breeze, more like a fading sigh hovered about my ears—listless, almost hesitant, unsure whether to linger or to move on.
October has truly arrived.
As I walked toward the dam, there was little chance I would escape the irony in one domain’s broad expansion even as the other was shuttering its doors for the season. Coyote’s ever-widening range and Garter Snake coiled up within his insulated, hand-me-down burrow.
A shift of color, the crackle of a twig underfoot, the absence of birdsong
All ring familiar from my earliest recollection of past Octobers,
Yet somehow still fresh and startling.
I have walked along this path through four and seventy Octobers,
Each of which cloaked in fire, yet borne of a different ember.
Eos still delivers the last vestiges of light to waning days,
Persephone ushers in the dark, inevitable fate of descent and decay.
Beneath my feet, the earth yields, as if preparing for the darkness to come.
I move forward. Is it me who follows the path, or is it the path that follows my lead?
I ken how the leaves loosen their grip,
Then drift into the space that both carries and claims them.
But was it the wind that chose their release, or the leaves themselves, weary of clinging to what could no longer be sustained?
I have borne witness to stones tumbling beneath the Carson’s muscle.
Yet who can say whether it was River’s strength and persistence,
Or the stone’s quiet consent that shaped its turning?
Each truth flickers like October’s dance, refusing to stay put.
On the bank of the Carson, I know that the stream that flirts with my feet in passing is now a ghost.
Permanent and fleeting.
Chosen and given,
Force and surrender.
Light and shadow.
Ascent and descent.
River and stone.
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