Friday Ramble - Demeter at the Gate

A single burnished leaf from the oak in my neighbor's front yard floats down and comes to rest in a pot of chrysanthemums on her threshold. The deep scarlet in the center of the "mums" matches the vibrant color of her front door, a cheerful thing and very welcoming. Days are still warm here for the most part, but nights are starting to cool down, and it won't be long until villagers have to carry flower pots indoors every evening as darkness falls and the wind comes out of the river.

As the oak leaf makes itself comfortable among the blooms, a long v-shaped skein of geese passes overhead, joyously honking on its way out to farm fields to feed. The great Canadas will return at sunset and spend the night on the river.

Closer to the earth, the swallows of summer are packing their flight bags and making ready to depart, their places on the village telephone wires to be taken by flocks of chirping sparrows and constellations of noisy starlings, who are donning winter plumage and swapping their yellow beaks for pecking equipment in darker shades.

Village squirrels are frantically filling their larders, and I have surrendered to the little blighters in the matter of geraniums - there does not seem to be much I can do to prevent the flowers from being unceremoniously tossed out of their pots and replaced with buried acorns, berries, crabapples and walnuts. For some reason, the squirrels leave chrysanthemums alone. The scent perhaps?

When I awakened this morning before sunrise, Mars and Jupiters were bright presences in the southeast quadrant, and the constellation Orion was rising below them, his club held high and his sword belt twinkling. The appearance of the mythical hunter is one of my seasonal markers. Fall is on its way for sure. 

Above us, autumn stars twinkle in the darkness. Here on earth, apples, corn, pumpkins and hay are ripening. There is no doubt about it—Demeter is at the gate, and she is rattling its rusty latch with enthusiasm. The lady knows the ancient cantrip that grants her entrance to these smoky northern hills, and she knows the key in which it is to be sung. This is my favorite time of the year.