SEPTEMBER FAREWELL

This evening, I watched from my deck rocking chair as the sun sank in the west and twilight stole across the river. The sky slowly dimmed, sycamores leaning over the water grew somber, the riffle went from azure to indigo—while two-hundred yards upstream, a final surge of direct light found an opening in the blocking hills, blazed onto the eastern bank, and the first of the turning leaves glowed boldly in hues of  red and yellow. 

September, I thought, was quickly slipping away, bidding me fare-thee-well even as a bright Harvest Moon—a day past full—began it's evening climb into the sky. The next full moon will be the Hunter's Moon, and after that comes the Beaver Moon.

I love this time of year, love watching autumn assert its rule, claiming and transforming the land; it always catches me in its spell. Still, I also wonder—how many more times will I have the privilege of witnessing this change? How many more times will any of us? Time is a precious gift, never to be wasted. It's taken me a while to learn that—but I'm always cognizant of that singular inescapable fact, and never more so than during these weeks of turning leaves. Autumn is nature's vivid metaphor for our allotted time. We too, have our season.

So, in this final bow of glory another September bids adieu. I wish it well and thank it for the this evening's show…even as I whisper a silent prayer that we'll meet again.