welcoming the feel of fall in the berkshires...

We are home from a few weeks of wandering mostly in Montréal. It feels good to be in this place again. There are still bills to be paid, of course, and grass and gardens to be tended to as well. I need to up my game and get cracking on two contre-basse numbers I've been asked to play at the wedding of two friends and colleagues at L'Arche Ottawa, too. Di jumps back into a full online teaching schedule tomorrow morning and I have a variety of local commitments to address this week including two gigs to play this weekend. We had a restorative holiday away from our routine: a chance to explore new places, rest deeply, as well as spend quiet time together in silence and conversation. And it will be settling in a different way to sleep again in our own bed or sit on the deck and watch as the wetlands incrementally move towards autumn.

Driving home from Quebec and upper New York State made it clear that fall is hovering just over the horizon. Already there were red tips on the maples and the hint of yellow and orange everywhere else. Eating sandwiches on our deck at 3 pm, our own vista is turning a rusty gray-brown as greens fade in response to the new angle of the sun. It is a gentle surrender right now - and that is one reason autumn is my favorite season. Grace Paley evokes the subtle ache of this beautiful time in her poem, "Autumn."

What is sometimes called a 
  tongue of flame
or an arm extended burning
  is only the long
red and orange branch of
  a green maple
in early September reaching
  into the greenest field
out of the green woods at the
  edge of which the birch trees
appear a little tattered tired
  of sustaining delicacy
all through the hot summer re-
  minding everyone (in
our family) of a Russian
  song a story
by Chekhov or my father

What is sometimes called a
  tongue of flame
or an arm extended burning
  is only the long
red and orange branch of
  a green maple
in early September reaching
  into the greenest field
out of the green woods at the
  edge of which the birch trees
appear a little tattered tired
  of sustaining delicacy
all through the hot summer re-
  minding everyone (in
our family) of a Russian
  song a story by
Chekhov or my father on
  his own lawn standing
beside his own wood in
  the United States of
America saying (in Russian)
  this birch is a lovely
tree but among the others
  somehow superficial

We'll eat simply tonight as we ease our way back into the comfortable truths of this house. I'll get Lucie from the kennel in the morning so she can sleep contentedly for five days straight on my side of the bed. Di has reset her studio/teaching room so that she can share new conversations with her online students in Japan. Five or six dozen tomatoes are waiting for their vines to be staked to new trellises before sunset tomorrow. And a few weeks worth of laundry is now churning in the basement. One season has come to a close as we pulled into our driveway and a new one is starting to take root. I am grateful.