Air Apparent
So often, the essence of every season is held in the
air. Now November, the other morning on
my walk I heard a wave of an awakening morning wind rushing through the oaks. Although there is a ragged smattering of
color splashed here and there across my view, the oaks are the only trees with
a good portion of leaves still clutching to their branches. The remnants are now stiff and brittle, so
that they rattle in the gust like Ezekiel’s dry bones. These however, as a burst of leaves take
flight, cause the oaks to appear more to be breaking apart than coming back
together.
In the pause between wind waves a single leaf lets
loose. Because the leaf is curled at the
edges, it catches the air so that it floats one direction, then pauses, turns
and floats back again. Its’ flight
reminds me of the butterflies when they dance across the grass fields in the
heavier air of mid-August. I watch the
leaf spin and twist elegantly all the way to the ground. As the leaf settles softly upon those already
piled deep, there is a barely audible, but still audible “tick” sound that is
heard – then past -then silent. Was
November in the un-hearable sound of the leaf’s brief flight, or that barely
perceptible sound as it settled?
I don’t have long to ponder the answer because a
high-pitched hooting sound draws my attention across the way as three tundra
swans somehow materialized out of the perfect blue sky and landed in a graceful
glide in the pond. As their name
suggests, they spent the summer and early autumn months near the Arctic Circle. But, there must have been some colder weather
to chase them down at least this far south.
In the spiring they can linger on for several weeks as they wait
somewhat patiently for the thaw to go on ahead of them. In the fall, they seem to only stop for a
short rest and to refuel before continuing for another thousand miles to the
southeast Atlantic coastline. I’m
certain these three didn’t migrate alone, but three is all that are resting on
the pond as I walk by.
In seems like a mix and match morning as I also notice
that a little knot of bluewing teal are tucked neatly into the near shore of
the pond. These should have headed
further south in September or October at the latest. Are they late, or are the swans early? Can they be either? Or, are they as simply creatures, always precisely
where and when they should be?
The question deepens as a flutter of wings to my right
draws my attention back to the woods.
The morning sun catches them just right from behind. It is a about three dozen bluebirds that must
have been resting in the roadside treetops, that took flight at my approach. The bluebirds that spent the summer season locally
all vacated southward several weeks ago, so these must have come from farther
north and are just now working their way south.
The whole bunch flies on ahead about 100 yards and resettles in the tree
branches until once again I get too close.
This time they strike off southward across the open grasses. The nearest trees in the direction they are
headed are three miles away. They will
probably resettle there to rest and feed before resuming their migration in the
night.
In the gathering evening, I have a chance once again
to step outside. The sun has already
melted into a puddle of reds and oranges as I face westward, in the direction of
my morning walk. The air is filled with
music of migration as I hear sandhill cranes and Canadian geese calling their brethren
to gather. Blended beautifully into the building
symphony is the hooting of what now sounds like several hundred tundra swans. Color, deepening darkness, sounds, silence, motion
and stillness all gathered up into mid-air in this November.
“The wind blows where it wills, and
you can hear the sound it makes, but you do not know where it comes from or
where it goes; so it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.”
John 3:8
His Peace <><
Deacon Dan
Photo by Dulcey Lima on Unsplash
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