Once, years ago, he stood outside a house, in the middle of a forest, on a snowy, early November evening. The snow was heavy, wet perfect- snow-ball making-snow, and as it came down, there was an oppressive, muffled silence. Because it was early in the season, the snow was building up on many of the trees that hadn’t shed their leaves. Then in the silence, first here, then there, he could hear limbs snapping and cracking, like random rifle shots in the muffled darkness, as branches gave way under the weight of the wet, heavy snow.
Today, walking home through piles of brown leaves on the sidewalk, the trunks, limbs, branches, twigs of bare trees silhouetted against the gray sky. The lawn covered, with some green peaking through here and there. Wondering if he really should bother to rake before it snows. The un-carved pumpkins on the front porch, holding up well from the cold, remind him they need to be split and put out back so the squirrels can get at the seeds. Wet, matted leaves line the bottom of the bird bath, that needs to be brought in. He’s glad the leaves are down. He had worried an early snow would get caught in the leaves and damage the trees. They seemed to hang on into mid-November.
copyright 2016 Christopher Donahue