Beset by drought and significantly warmer than one used to expect, what at 1st glance might’ve seemed a mundane autumn lingered
long.
At liberty beneath bright skies, I wandered.
The best part for me both personally & professionally is
that a significant part of that land looking occurred in the embrace of old growth woods.
That is, native forest that’s by & large stood
undisturbed since time immemorial.
Well before any much vaunted New World, at any rate.
That work then put me back in touch with the forest
floor like I haven’t been since I was a kid.
Also, with the distinctive character of old wood itself.
All but abstract.
Often mysterious.
But possessed of organic memory so lengthy and complex it
puts our individually transient stories to shame by way of comparison.
In the end, my purposeful presence in the real world while this edge season's mostly obscure splendor quietly unfolded aced my every intention for it.
I’d have happily continued, had the unseasonable weather
held.
Except the last two days of November, right on the cusp of meteorological winter, near blizzard
conditions slipped all the way down from the Arctic to eat autumn’s last
vestige.
Today the frigid, monochromatic season is everywhere upon
the land.
For most but never all, life trudges on.
Though daring fueled by knowledge, tempered as needed by caution so to endure yet another Great Lakes winter is prerequisite for survival until next spring.
That just goes with the territory.
