It is November, but the day is warm. My mom has taken the girls for the afternoon, and I am free to wander the world at leisure. Alone. These quiet hours spent walking through woods and meadows refresh and recharge me.
Many of the trees have already cloaked the earth with their canopies. Their stark branches scratch the blue sky. In the meadow, the milkweed has burst open, releasing seed clouds into the wind. Late-season raspberries ripen on thorny branches, and the goldenrod is fringed with white.
A grey squirrel rustles in the leaves, busily gathering nuts—a portent of the days to come. He swears at me as I pass by, angry at the interruption. Further down the path, a fallen nest lies abandoned in the grass. Its owners have no need of it anymore. Their young have long flown away.
I love the autumn, despite the fact that it precedes the grey days of winter. It is the end of the season, yes. But spring will one day come, and life will flow again. Even in death, there can be beauty and hope.
Every ending holds the promise of a new beginning.
So I savour the moment.