This was the result of a writing prompt at my meeting this evening. Thanks to Peggy Millin for the inspiration to “Be a Tree.”
This time of year there are spiders among the roots. There are clusters of fat eggs on the underside of the collard leaves. This time of year the trees draw the last sweet drops of mineral and animal up through their tangle of roots to pop out the baby-seeds of someday trees. Acorns patter into the upturned garbage can lid. Black walnuts bomb the car roof with their stinky perfect fruit. The jays and the squirrels stripped the old apple tree of her red babies, pausing to gouge the ripening tomatoes nearer the ground.
This time of year we wake to shrouded trunks of maple wrapped in the cool fog from the river. The geese-sounds cut through it as they vee north, bound for their lakeside pasturage.
Rusty rose touches the very edges of the witch hazel as she spreads before us her bounty of seed pod and blossom. A shrill yellow sparks from damaged twigs bringing the second warning of autumn or maybe the third.
This time of year the insects are loud in their singing, feeling death in the tail-end of life. Oil-feathered starlings pounce on crickets. Cats pounce on starlings. All of nature spins into the deeping chill of a world grown old and tired this time of year.