on the eve of The Hunter's Moon
hands warmed by the stove. the world was quiet

I've been here before . . . 

but never like this.

in the mood for a little green

on this gray, nearly November day

If I were a tree, I’d wish I were a human.

Why does that seem so wrong? To think trees might want the freedom to move somewhere cleaner, more quiet? To pick the place they put down their roots?

Why do we assume that trees are peacefully resigned to the place we give them? Especially that place in our minds.

Is it because they are silent? I ask myself. My mind reels with all the silenced people of the world. They are not content even if wordless and holding their place, a place designated by someone other.

What would happen to the trees if we were to become what we believe they are and make peace with the place we’re planted?

(this was written in response to the Festival of Trees prompt this month)

the last maple leaves. near the beaver's
lodge, oak leaves hanging on. a woodpecker rapidly taps.
no ducks on the pond. skim ice along the edge. wrinkled. water falls
in a rush over rocks near home
there is a river we walk towards after dark. listening

to the stars

beech

color that remains, holds
rattles, a semblance of summer
brisk is the wind

first snow

a lovely way to wake

and take things slowly

in good company

Southern Vermont

15-20mph winds, 50° -- a chilly fall day

in search of the last red leaves

1.5 hours from home, an old haunt, bitterns rumored to lurk here
(year after year my eyes have failed to find them among the reeds... but I still believe... one day)
while eating apples, there will be a shift

to the tamarack

yet to glow

Yesterday: Rain. Sun. Blue sky then. Slate. Lightning flashed off the countertop. Maples fought to stand straight in the wind. He began filming their last orange leaves--a fierce rattling, a tumbling blow. Thunder at 3pm.

By the warmth of his wood stove, I watched November coming fast. No red this morning. Just rust. Bands of it in the hills, patches where the river runs. October 8th, I remind myself.

Home to Bluet Hill

When I first moved to Vermont, this dam was being repaired. Water levels were low; traffic was low. The brook feeding this reservoir ran like the cobblestone river it once was. I witnessed my first cream midge hatch there and learned to cast. I began picking up stones.

The rainbows were small and beautiful. Monarchs frequented the exposed banks blooming with Joe-pye -weed. A resident great blue heron circled the cove near my favorite place to rest--Bluet Hill. I'm looking forward to next year, paddle in hand.

near the hammock