Flight Path

A flash of red; a pair of cardinals. The piercing cry of a Canadian blue jay. Chevrons of geese honk high overhead, seeming nearly in the contrails formed by transatlantic jets. Boat traffic is more up the river than out of it, boats making their pilgrimage to the protected boatyards of Naragansett Bay. Yellows, browns and reds. The deer have dark coats to ward off cold winds from the north and west, the better hide in brush from prey, both four and two legged. The vast schools of blues from September have moved from New England down the coastline to the Cheasapeake waters and I no longer see the birds diving on the baitfish, chopped by frenzied feeders from above and below. Fires, warm hearths, buckets of hot coffee, cold mornings, moderate afternoons. Harvest foods, squashes, stews and soups. Pumpkins everywhere. From closets, chests and bottom drawers come blankets and the heavy clothes, donned in layers in early morning and shed by mid afternoon, only to be replaced at dusk. The high and wide vista helps me see the seasons turning round and round, betraying their approach on the far horizon. The change is relentless, inexorable--it is not stealthy, if you are aware. There are dramatic swings in weather, and instability reigns, a few days of sun, then several days of raw nor'easter rain and wind, most notably shorter days, with longer nights and dark mornings. We are up well before the dawn in time for school, and for the short trip to the gas station to pick up the newspaper when it opens at exactly seven. We are loving these observances, welcoming the year's end, the fall season. The armchair pursuits like baseball's world series and the ubitquitous football match-ups. This is the change within the change, the time of harvest, of fullness before the sere and cold of winter. After so much waiting, these old bones can wait a bit longer for its arrival, but time waits for no man, least of all, for me. Even now, in middle age, the sand runs out of our glass, the body creaks and groans at times, though if I do not feel young, I am far from being old. It seems mostly a question of attitude about the great fight to persevere and never to yield. We are on the flight path from north to south, from summer to winter, from plenty to scarce, from fat to lean. The little birds remind us how things change and to prepare. they make me look ahead and to think. To change the oil, to replace the engine belts, the antifreeze. Living here on the flight path, there is a constant natural reminder to be provident. I love Bob Dylans' long famous lyric: "you don't need a weatherman to tell which way the wind blows." As long as our eyes remain open to what crosses before us, we can take our cue in nature's clues.