The leaves are turning yellow on the big tree in my backyard.
My study is on the second story of my house, and my desk is oriented so that I can type and look out the huge picture windows into my backyard. All I see is a wall of green trees and a bit of fencing.
Over the last week I have watched the largest tree start paling to yellow. Its leaves droop and dry, and this morning I noticed small showers falling with every brief gust. The yellow leaves turn in the light, golden and brightly twirling.
I can’t escape the feeling that every fall is a little death of every tree, as if they are abandoning life for a few months. The sap slows, the leaves fall and the tree goes softly to sleep. Sleeping trees give off a particular scent of dusty leaves and deep dreams. It is sweet and catches in the back of my throat, like a sob.
The yellow tree has a family of squirrels living in it. They run along my fence and chase one another. They also steal the seeds from my birdfeeder and hide them in their cheeks. Their coats are already starting to become full, their tails soft and feathery, their bellies bulging.
But fall is not here, not yet. I can feel my own body start anticipating the sharp cold winds, the smells and sounds of leaves crunching underfoot, and I must stop and remind myself of the rhythms of trees and life.
The first flight of a golden leaf is not the harbinger of fall, but a reminder of the cycle of the year. Even in the glories of late summer, with the strong colors of sunlight caught in green leaves and the fertile scent of corn leaves and soybeans ripening, even when everything is so full of life that the earth shouts with it, a leaf falls.
My tree is crying golden tears of delight that everything will be again.
