The dog pounces at the blowing leaves, testing the limits of her collar at the edge of the driveway as we wait for traffic to pass. Her nightly walk always starts this way. Both of us heading in the same direction, a line of webbing between us, pulling against one another.
It is a kind of give-and-take that the two of us have received and bestowed for a dozen years.
The sun is momentarily blinding as it dips beneath the trees. Its light channels through red and yellow leaves electrifying the neighborhood and making it seem as if the whole world was on fire.
In a good way. An exhilarating way.
When it is finally safe we cross.
The neighbors have already started the ritual cleansing of their yards. The fruits of their raking and pruning line the sidewalks, ready for an official transport to wherever it is we mulch or compost as a collective good.
The season is still in its infancy … the blink and you’ll miss it kind of development.
The crabapples gave up the fight during the summer. For a few years now I've noticed these diminutive trees that live near the mossy side of our dwelling bow out early. Not long after they flower and unfurl foliage, the leaves just seem to slowly give up. Fluttering to the ground here and there until the branches are mostly bare in the eighth month.
Stressed. I worry the trees might be dying. A fungus or a blight. Something other than old age.
The sugar maples are holding on to their color while the oaks get ready for their turn. Hickory will follow soon after.
The drying leaves that have begun their descent, curl into feather-weight shells and crunch underneath our feet as we walk. It is a satisfying sound.
The dog sniffs at the piles as I scuff along the edges. Careful not to undo the work of the rake. I want to rustle leaves, not feathers.
A teardrop leaf caught my eye. Its center was a translucent gold while sawtooth edges blazed fiery red. They hung on the shrub like a wave of festive garlands.
Oh, what a celebration!
Oh, how I wish I could bark orders at our dogwoods. Get them to burst forth and shuffle off this mortal coil before the municipal sweeping ends … dog-willing.
But I would be barking up the wrong tree. The leaves will fall when they are good and ready. Certainly, after the birds have feasted on the fruit and left the remnants to molder underneath.
My internal almanac can predict with witnessed assurance that the town trucks will have just made the switch from vacuums to other winter attachments when the lot will give up the ghost and finally unburden the tree.
Of course, they will stay put until after the first snow. That's how my memory tells me it happens. And I remind my husband that in those years we are content to let the lawnmower, Mother Nature, and the squirrels building nests recycle the remnants.
The dog will have a clear view of their abode, and she will remind us as the show piles up there is work for her outside. Haranguing, corralling, squirrel-patrol work.
Until spring. When we are distracted by the leaves of old when fresh flowers and chutes poke out of whatever remains are left.
No comments:
Post a Comment