Change of Season

The river creates its own weather system in the Spring and Fall. Every morning is gray and dismal, seeming to promise rain and cool. Then, as the sun rises and burns through the fog, there is this miracle of air and light that brings with it the warmth of the sun. Green fields near the river's edge steam as the first rays of sun hit their surfaces. The poplar leaves begin to quake, as the breeze picks up and the day truly begins. It's a slow start at the change of seasons. The water is brown as it turns over, sending creatures to the bottom in Fall and up to the surface as insects hatch each evening in Spring. It is such an elegant system. Far too complicated to possibly imagine.
Every day I drive up the road along the river. Sometimes I think if I travel the road one more day, I'll shivel up with the sheer boredom of it all. And then I'll see an osprey dive for roadkill on the median, its head elegantly tilting to survey the landscape. Or the fields will have been hayed and the grass turned creating a whole new color palette. I am in awe.
It's autumn now and the trees are clinging to their green, stubbornly refusing to move along into reds and golds. The weather has been unnaturally warm- global warming but who really knows here in this little corner of the world--and the forest has been more dun colored than its expected yellows and oranges. I think it's odd, but what can I do about it? Make note. Recycle more. Drive less. Burn wood. Use less. Get smaller. Disappear?
We ARE here. It is a fact.
So I notice. Report. Say prayers. Make offerings. Sing songs. Lend a hand. Make soup. Stack wood. Breath.