Autumn

There is a fierce autumn wind blowing here, whipping the dwindling leaves from their branches with petulant truculence. On one side of its bellicose gusts is the fading warmth of summer; on the other, the ominous chill of the coming winter. It blows dark silver clouds across the sky so quickly that a stormy darkness yields to bright amber sunlight and comes back again in a moment, giving time the unnatural feeling of a time-lapse film.

The wind creates a cacophony of sound: Rustling leaves, crackling branches, flags ripping away from the polls that hold them, the sound of great numbers of trees swaying like a skyborne tide, its own whoosh of portent.

I throw open the windows to let in the tempestuous air. The cats race to the windows and press their faces against the screens; the dogs lift their heads and their noses twitch, their eyes grow wide as if in recognition of a forgotten part of an ancient self. The air fills their lungs and possesses them. They are beyond frisky: For a moment, they are wild, just like the air.


[Video Description: Scenes of trees in the wind from around my garden, this morning. Set to Yann Tiersen's "La Corde."]