In the not-yet-sun-up morning light, the silhouette of the Japanese maple across the street rustles and rattles here and there. There is no wind but I know from the shaking spots that the squirrels are at work, reaching out on thin, thin limbs, sometimes hanging upside down to reach whatever lingering sweet shoots there are. The days are growing cooler and it's time to fill up and store and prepare for a winter that will dawn in the near future.
Echoing the squirrels' announcement of autumn, a newspaper ad trumpets MACOUNS and other apples for sale. Macouns, my sister once said, make the best apple pies. MacIntosh and other varieties are too mushy and often flavorless, but Macouns are as brisk and firm and delicate as a squirrel's tread.
Fall is coming and yet it is spring.
|Peace pagoda, Leverett, Mass.|
I got an invitation to the Sunday reopening of the new growth where old growth had stood. In my mind, I would like to go and offer some incense, but Buddhism is a young man's sport and climbing that dirt incline is not in the cards for a man enjoying his autumn.