Migrations of Spirit

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
William Shakespeare, (As You Like It)

The sun rises later these days, and my early morning observance is also later now, falling around seven o'clock rather than well before six as it did all summer long. This is the autumn turning of the great wheel, a time when the early sunlight is paler and cooler, when shadows and reflections across the beaver pond are longer and more mysterious. In the early morning light, the bullrushes seem to be spun of burgundy rather than gold, and there is a clear sense of waiting, here by the water.

Earlier in the year, the pond was full of ducks and geese, and their melodious cacophony filled the air for miles around. There were always bullfrogs in chorus here at sunrise, rows of mud turtles and snappers sunning themselves on the floating remnants of the beaver chewings, herons prowling the shoreline majestically and making nary a ripple as they moved through the shallows.

It is always a great pleasure to come here alone at dawn, curl up on a rock near the water, watch the sun come up and the al fresco marketplace throw its shutters wide and open up for business. This weekend, everything is quiet - there will certainly be ducks, geese and herons about later and hawks circling overhead, but like me, the wild creatures of the Two Hundred Acre Wood are awakening a little later these days, and those who are not preparing themselves for migration are stuffing their larders for winter.

I do not hail from a migratory species, and there is no need to stuff a larder for winter, but in my own quiet way, I am battening down the hatches and making ready for the long nights time. My real preparations are within, and I need this stillness, these quiet morning intervals by the pond. I could not function without them.