I think I just changed from someone whose favourite season is summer to one whose most beloved season is autumn.
A nature walk at 9:27 this morning without camera:
Wood Ducks fly out of the slough as I cross the Wyandotte Street East Bridge and am soon flanked by shoulder-high teasel in its post-summer nakedness, by rose bushes bent by the weight of fat orange-red rose hips, a few late chicory flowers whose cornflower blue never fails to stop me in my tracks. Sunlight slants through yellowing poplar boughs as Downy Woodpecker whinnies. Canada Goose and Mallard families are on the pond today. Killdeer and a sandpiper enjoy the mudflat.
As I round the pond and head into the woods, I notice the tracks of a small deer in the mud. From the angle I can tell the animal emerged from the overgrowth to drink from the pond, probably at dusk last evening. Deer and pheasant live here.
Above my head I see and hear a migratory commotion: a flock of Cedar Waxwings, most of them this year’s immature, settle into the top of a leafless tree. Dogwood berries shine like jewels. The morning sun illuminates the garnet leaves of the stag-horn sumac.
For all of this I am thankful on this quiet Thanksgiving Day. Most of all, I am thankful that at age 54, I am finally brave enough to ask to spend this day alone.