These Autumn Days
Cold steel stings my hand. Evident is the weight of a quiet Ithaca as I trek over these knotted hills. Bluestem grass flirts with barren sumac branches as I beat a path overland. Moses, my French Brittany, makes his way to and fro. His best attempts to befriend a bird spoiled by natural instinct, but try he does. We are here. This place once walked by my family. Once among these wild grasses they too searched for birds.
There is a certain comfort found in these quiet fall days. Slate skies press down from the heavens, trees yield to north winds and brambles wave their barren sweets, seeding the ground for a long away spring. Cold ushers in the idea of home, family, and the welcomed sounds of a fire. For now these wait on me.
Boots press forward step by slow step. Friends laugh at the exchange of a joke. Plans are made for the balance of the day, and we press onward. Darken skies have made way for the vast blueness above. White clouds gather as the old gather around the buffet carving station. We move on, our line tattered at best. Dogs be still like rocks, their body twisted to the scent of our prize.Time melts aways. Shotguns shouldered as steel confetti dots the horizon. Cheers erupt for fallen birds, and sorrow looms over what could have been.
Memories are powerful. I cling to what little memory I have of family, and wonder what he saw here. Where did he shoot birds? Where too was his Brittany standing firm, showing off his prowess? Vast are these rolling hills, each pocket of grass and rose hips concealed in lost memories. I smile. Some sixty years have passed since this shotgun breathed this air. Fresh air consumes the barrel. The pump readies for the new adventure. I cling tight and walk on.
New days will arrive. Winds will cut sharp over the barren fields, and soon I will set forth again in the company of a friend, or that of my dog and we will seek the flight of a new bird. Future morning shadows will stretch long like thinning bones concealing our winged prize. Here amongst these hills, these places of dreams we gather. We gather to see the stained glass leafs of autumn fall. We gather for the hope of what may become a memory. It is these autumn days we long for.
