Today, like yesterday, is chilly, damp, and grey, November getting an early start. Each morning there are fewer leaves on the trees and more on the ground. Still, the trees in our yard have managed to hold on to enough foliage that when we walk around we hear the chittering of flocks of small birds resting in the still colourful branches.
Although there is still an abundance of wild food, the feeder is slowly being emptied. Tomorrow is forecast to be stormy, so come the weekend many of these birds will likely be riding the north wind south. Perhaps these diminutive winged ones are stocking up to shelter through the heavy rain and strong winds, and then, to fuel the long trip to come.
I wrote one of my earliest, and most cherished poems, in high school, following a long walk along a winding creek bed in a late October rain. I was surprised and delighted by the way, unlike today’s rather dismal lowering clouds, the rain brought out the colour in the foliage when I expected it to do the opposite.
Musing on my autumn journey over much needed cup of warming tea, I concluded the poem with a nod to Robert Frost:
“I thought it would be the sun, but it’s the rain.”
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