As I walked old trails with a young dog last evening, our world was lovely and quiet. Especially so after the previous day’s windstorm, the one that pushed over the screen at the drive-in theater. I sauntered, scanning for spoons among fallen branches while my mind fumbled for a line from a recently-read essay:
Now that Autumn’s silence is upon the land, one can hear the big, enduring voices which seldom shout the things they have to say.Hal Borland, “The Enduring Voices” (originally published in the New York Times, 1962)
In response to the sirens of hurry and restlessness, a fall evening whispers words of calm and continuity.
Early in our walk, the rays of the dropping sun bridged the fields of goldenrod, illuminating the bare branches of the maples beyond. A century and a half ago and four hundred miles away, Emily Dickinson wrote what might be a fitting caption:
Frequently the woods are pink —
Frequently are brown;
Frequently the hills undress
Behind my native town.Emily Dickinson, from Poem XXXVI
Simple as it sounds, it speaks to me of broad patterns and deep assurances. Wishing you peace in autumn, and a good walk.