I love autumn in New England. It makes me so happy that I have moved back here to stay. I am wide-eyed as I drive through the hill towns in the fall, watching the leaves change colors day to day. I sense the nuances of autumn, the change of a meadow with and without shafts of sunlight.
I drive through towns with sparkling white colonial churches perched above fields of cornstalks, rye grasses, and grazing cows. All this is surrounded by acres of evergreens and trees ablaze with fall colors. It is the last splurge of fecundity before winter.
The trees are shameless in their show of color. Maple trees in bright orange and red vie with the yellow-leaved birch and the scarlet sumac for attention.
They are belles at the autumnal ball, whirling in the wind.
They are dervishes, whirling for God.
They are a dream, a mystical moment, a challenge to complacency.
They shimmer to a celestial music that only they can hear.
It is a symphony brought to them by the wind, echoed in the clouds, illuminated by the brilliance of the sky. It is a rhythm that speaks of love, and loss, and hope. It is an eternal humming, a soft melody just beyond the reach of human ears, recognizable, but dimly.
The trees stand, robed in color and glory and proclaim "Look!" to the world.
"See what is splendid, what is beautiful. But, see how impermanent the world is...for as we flash our color we prepare for the little death of winter. Love us now, while you can. "