Cold, Wet, Bronzed, Perfect

Yesterday, it was wet, cold and overcast in the Lanark highlands, and the sun didn't put in a single brief appearance during the day. There was rain — there was freezing rain — there was hail — there was snow — there were ice pellets in abundance, but oh, the fabulous oak leaves. This year, the highlands saved the best show for last, holding out an astonishing gift for the final sodden weeks of October.

It was quiet, so perfectly quiet that one could hear the snow falling among the trees and leaves coming to rest on the trail ahead. Rosy bronze oak leaves were in freefall, floating away from their parent trees, flying high and fast and free and falling to wet earth in great rustling drifts — every single falling leaf was perfectly shaped and possessed a fine silvery sheen, a quiet luminosity one does not notice on sunny days.

I traversed steep ridges, sometimes hanging onto small trees to make my way up and down slopes almost vertical in their ascent and descent. I rambled through the deep bare woods and followed deer trails for several hours, and I managed to forget entirely about the bone chillingly cold day (just below freezing), about the drenching wet and the wind. The falling oak leaves were too gorgeous for words, and I felt like dancing, but had to settle instead for careful scrambling and lurching about ecstatically.

Is there anything to equal the colour, fragrance and texture of oak leaves in late October, their fine rustling music? I think not — the great oaks simply have no parallel in the north woods. If a day ever dawns when I cannot appreciate oaks both great and small, it will be time to move on, hopefully somewhere here in my native place, but one never knows. Perhaps I shall return as an oak tree. . . .

An original Monday haiku offering is here.