Somewhere, perhaps far, perhaps close, there is a person. Old or young, man or woman, strong or week, or in-between, it doesn't really matter. And this person (we'll call it "he"as a generalization for human-kind) wakes up one morning and realizes that quite without warning the day has arrived when a dear old friend and close companion is returning to him on the morning train. He has known, of course, all summer that this friend or relative was arriving, but for one reason or another the days went faster than he had expected, and now, on the morning of arrival, he gets to experience all over again (like he did the day he found out that this kindred spirit was coming to visit) the thrill of of being able greet this other person at the station. I think that the sort of feeling that he has when he wakes up and realizes this, is very similar to the feel that I get every time I've looked out the window today (and some of yesterday).
The view goes something like this: Far off in the distance are the great grey-blue expanses of cloud, extending their billowy selves into the cavernous sky, and then occasionally spilling onto the tops of the mountains of thick waves, just like a good lathering of cream cheese on a nice cucumber or raspberry sandwich.Down the mountain you see little shades of purple, then grey, then a hazy blue-green, and then, when you get to the foothills you see a golden green colour. Golden green, I think that this is a very lovely colour for hills, mostly because it means that some of the trees are changing their colours. Anyway, the hills are golden green, and lower still are the fields of pure gold, lighted by the fairy-glow of muted sunshine that peeks from behind the cotton ball sky. The fields are harvested now, and here and there is a bale of hay, or a stray crow, wondering where all the goodies that enticed him all summer have got to. Every once in a while, as they come nearer to the foreground, my eyes strike upon a small copse of oak, or a string of pine, marching steadfastly along between farm and farm again, those pieces of well-tended land that make up "my valley". Still nearer is the disappointed vineyard (read Emily of New Moon by L. M. Montgomery, and you'll understand) of which I can only see a small corner, before its tragic self is blotted from my sight by a small wood between myself and it. And after the forest, which would take a whole book to describe its moods and elfin qualities, comes "the" field. It hasn't been mowed in a while, so it's nice and feathery, with brown and gold and green fronds of grass popping up and down to wave hello in the crisp air, the taller ones are mostly white, and the shorter ones are mostly green, there are medium sized blotches about that are made up of a dusty faun colour. But it's that crisp air that I'm really wanting to talk about. It signifies that friend that came on the train. September is a most kindred spirit. She comes once a year, and with her comes the cool, quiet, gentle time of inbetweenness that is so coveted by people like myself. It's still dry enough take go on long picnics, and fall asleep in the grass without waking up muddy. But it's also cool enough to cozy up with a cup of hot chocolate and toast, and read a warm book with a beloved mother, sister, cousin, or friend.
so, you see, September arrived yesterday in full, not because it was the first day (and it wasn't) but because I think she'd only just got on the train when we started counting her days, and now she's here and she wants to say hello, and I'm very certain that all the things she'll tell you in confidence while she's here will make you very excited for autumn (her very best friend) to get here too. Because to only thing better than September come visiting, is September and Autumn come to stay for a while.
No comments:
Post a Comment