November on the mountain is filled with yellow ochre, sap green, burnt sienna, and quiet. The voices of nature touch caress your senses. The voice of hope touches your heart. Wrapped in the blanket of autumn I am able to listen, take a step closer to knowing what it means to be.
A friend has a relative struggling to stay in this world. I have a friend doing the same. I watch as another leaf loosens its hold upon the poplar tree, whose roots cling to the cliff edge. I whisper goodbye. The leaf skitters across the deck, makes a sound, like a little person scurrying to catch the last train leaving from a station.
I shut my mind from that image, and look outward, toward the mountains across the gorge, seeking something to hold onto. The sky is graying, the sun is fading. I am filled with uncertainty.
What will happen to my friend’s relative, what will happen to my friend? I am silent as I hurl this question heavenward. I lean on the deck rail and will myself to simply be. After awhile, I let go of the questions and stare, nowhere and everywhere. The scene brings peace to my heart. A sharp keen note splits the silence.
A hawk passes before me. He disappears to the south. I want the bird to circle, unready to let this vision go, but I know that is a selfish wish on my part. He needs to journey on.
November on the mountain is filled with pulsing color and quiet. November prepares us for winter. And, if you are still, if you can simply be, a hawk soars.