A Gallery of Seasons: Walking Beside the West River

I know:  autumn doesn't begin until the equinox.  But don't you agree that once Labor Day is over, once school has started, it feels like autumn?  De facto if not de jure?  Seasons always seem to start earlier than the equinoxes and solstices indicate.

Certainly, in this part of the country, things shift once September arrives.  School is in its first week.  The air takes on a crispness ... plus a sense of invigoration missing during summer's humid days.  It's time, one thinks, to make some resolutions, to figure out one's life.  All those good things that were put on hold for "vacation time."  And then colors begin to change--all leading to October's big splash before the equally big adjustment to winter's totally different landscape, temperature, life-style, outlook. 

Except for winter, when it is not plowed out--and is thus blocked by snow--I like to go out to the trail beside the West River.  Once a rail bed ... the river on one side, a corn field on the other until that gives way to hillside.

On these meditative, oxygenating walks, I look out at the river flowing slowly--a whistling summer blue over which the sun-god has tossed handfuls of sparkle.  Or a steely, wintry ultramarine.  Sometimes, wind ruffles the feathers of a black bird sitting on a high branch.  Or Canada Geese bleep and cry and go "oh-wop."  Rumi says, "Keep walking, though there's no place to get to."  I do keep walking.  Then I turn around and walk back.

Over the years, I've chronicled the seasonal changes.  Here are some ... starting with the end of summer.

The Marina boat dock and restaurant.

Preparing the corn field.

Mid-summer's full growth.

And so ...

Early September

... we go on around again.  The corn is now cut.  Goldenrod blooms.  Summer's green has deepened, hardened, resembling a jasper necklace or Mexican agate as the first yellow is washed across the land.  Berries appear.  Leaves droop and fall.  A monarch butterfly joins me as I walk.