Okay, all of y’all who follow this site gotta know by now what to expect this time of the year, so without further ado, here goes:
Determined as one tends to become on sunlit afternoons of majestic October essence to experience peaceful rejuvenation of soul and spirit, these famished eyes set out today to relish an Ozark feast of dazzling color and give thanks and glory to the Creator for the grace that is undoubtedly bestowed upon our existence in these brooding autumn hills. His perfection is on display here for all creation to behold, especially during early fall when gum trees emerge from sylvan dressing halls in gaudy scarlet as they join fallow and orange sassafras preparing for their roles in the celebration of this year’s festive autumnal potpourri.
I shall pause here for a long, deep draught of brilliant, gilded hickory mingled to perfection with silent crimson sumac; assuredly a drink deserving of place in a celestial banquet such as has appeared before me, much to be savored and without brevity. As I relish this event, a fleeting dark realization captures my thoughts – ere long, alas, villainous icy fingers of winter shall steal into this wondrous realm of color and as required in her annual pilferage, pluck the boughs of oak, hickory, and gum barren of hue, casting spidery shadows where autumnal glory does now abound. Today’s walk under slow dancing towers of amber and pastel, nevertheless shall remain unencumbered with notions of tomorrow’s boreal malignity and instead ply with soul wholly enraptured this day’s intoxicating halls of splendor that only the skilled hand of the Creator can be imagined to lovingly endow of all these immaculate tints with His delicate brush.
Moss-darkened limestone escarpments gather along silent rims of the ravine to witness a symphony of windblown amber oatgrass whispering an autumn song played in chords known only to the gentle northern breeze. Fallow shadows find their way down rocky winding creek beds, now long devoid of water and in undoubted reminisce of misty April days when their banks were full. At this stage of the seasonal march, ochre leaves vie with desiccated limestone and agate rocks for places to rest and watch this autumn spectacle unfold. Somewhere above – far above – swaying golden boughs, the Savior undoubtedly watches, indeed it is He who is directing to perfection the extravaganza.
As I appreciatively devour my generous portion of the servings so graciously offered this day, a solitary traveler of honeyed oaken amber in final descent drifts aflutter onto the table before me. Having selected a suitable resting place, perhaps yesterday, perhaps months ago as he held onto the branch that bore him, he chose this day to let go and lend his mote of sublime texture to what is becoming a lush carpet of autumn hue. As he descends inexorably onto the earth, he silently waves farewell to the somber giant oak he came to know. Then he rests.
