Sequestered at the house, boredom overtook me just about when the sun broke through the clouds, sometime around three p.m.
For reasons that would bore you, I didn’t take Sammy up on a coffee invite to one of our favorite spots; it has soft chairs. I told him, “Nope, I’m not feeling it today. He accepted the reasoning.
I went to the patio, where two chairs remain despite the cooler weather. I surmise that if, through the fall and early winter, the sun comes out, I can run outside and grab a few seconds of that warm feeling on my face.
One must remember to keep the cushions in a dry spot, mainly to avoid the dampness that still surprises me, because of all those years and distance between me and diapers.
I suppose I am closer now to the second round of absorbent undergarments than I have been in decades, despite still being completely continental, if you understand what I am laying down.
You see, the English language allows wordplay if you simply open your mind to the opportunities.
I digress.
One underappreciated late-fall endeavor, once many leaves have fallen and blown away, is the distinct change in the sound of the breeze through the treetops.
Until now, the fluttering, rustling, and, yes, rattling of dead and dying leaves have overpowered the calming sounds to come as deciduous trees drop their detritus daily.
Winter wind whooshes.
With no more leaves to flutter, we slowly transition to hearing wind through the various-sized needles of pines, hemlocks, and cedars.
It’s pleasant.
Soon, the wind will whisper more, sending hauntingly calm messages that it’s okay to rest a bit and enjoy the slowdown that frigid winter demands.
I didn’t discover this until recently, finally realizing that the wind’s sound up here on the knoll has picked a new tune.
Maybe my retirement from dusty office spaces and musty car interiors finally allowed this epiphany to overwhelm me. I like to think so.
Sure, there are plenty of leaves left. But like a percussion section that keeps losing its snare drummer to smoke breaks and whiskey shots backstage, the whispers and whooshes pick up the slack.
I like it.
Sit and listen if you can. Maine has been gifted those winter trees that hold on to their duds through the cold snaps. Those needles sound more somber and serious, yet delicate and delightful.
It’s the same wind, with a different instrument. Enjoy it.
Keep your hands to yourself, leave other people’s things alone, and be kind to one another.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
Thank you for reading the stuff, supporting my craft through BuyMeACoffee, reading the books and Facebook posts, and for your comments, “likes,” and shares. tc