Transitions

The 11 days I was away seemed to mark the end of fall and the beginning of winter in my little part of New England. The big maple by the church was still adorned in golden red, and the northern dogwood that hides my back door from the parking lot had just begun to change when I left, and now they are completely bare. The leaves are gone behind the fence, and at night when I look out that way I can see the lights of cars on the highway rushing by, a reminder that I am still in the midst of things. The shops down in the town center become visible if I peer through the bare branches at the edge of the driveway.

One last tree in front held on to its golden brown leaves. This is the tree where, if I were a kid, I would build a treehouse. Its branches spread out just right, and one could sit just so and watch the world go by on the deceptively busy street corner.

It must've been a windy night, although I didn't hear it. This morning the leaves from that last tree cover the front lawn, like an unexpected golden snow fall in the night. The light is different in the living room now. I can feel winter in the creaks of the furnace, in the rustling of the bare branches, in the chill of the air.