Rain, Fog and Migration

It's a typical end-of-September morning here. I rose early and made coffee, pulled the draperies open and let Spencer out for a leisurely nose around the garden. Coffee in hand, I peered out into the street and up into the sky. There is rain in the forecast for this entire day, and fog and dense clouds cover the village like a blanket, floating like cotton just over the treetops.

The autumn migration is in full swing, and this whole part of the world seems to be on its way somewhere, except for me. The bluebirds, swallows and loons have already departed. The great herons remain, but they seem restless, and it will not be long until they have taken wing - their food supply is slowly disappearing from the marshes and estuaries where they made their summer homes.

Canada geese from farther north are passing over the little blue house in great singing waves this morning. They are so high that I can't see them, and I can barely hear their song of farewell, but I know they are calling goodbye, for they always do. If I had the proper voice for such an exercise, I would sing back, but I can only bless them and send them on their way with heartfelt wishes for a safe and happy journey and a speedy return in springtime.

There is a kind of serene melancholy and longing inherent in these autumn days, a sense of transience and impermanence and things falling away, a profound appreciation of these natural processes completing themselves, then beginning their perfect round motion once more.