Fall Morning
This is an excerpt of some morning pages/journal writing from a year ago on this morning – still living in the city, a snapshot of an early fall morning on the back patio of our rowhome.
What do you see happening on this early fall morning where you are?
Squirrels
I see you more now than I have for a while. Is it the turn of season that has you scampering across the phone and electrical wires, heading for the one rest-worthy tree in our alley? What are you bringing back with you?
Finds from the scraps in the side yards and the trash heaps, left over from someone’s discarded debris or dropped dinner, wrappers blown from down the block?
There are so few trees here; not none, which is helpful and hopeful, but few. I imagine you know each of them. The ones that have nuts and berries, and the ones that have a pocket for storage, where multiple branches come together to form a holding place, like a baseball glove.
I hear you sending messages to each other from one back garden to another.
“Hey friend in the tree, I’ve seen a pile of old rice down this way. I’m going to gather as much as I can, but if you see the others, send them to help.”
“Great! I will prepare our nest, our treasure chest, and clear some room for the feast.”
A fall breeze blows this morning and I wonder if its coolness has prompted a more urgent exploration. Is there anything for you here, on my patio? Some seeds, maybe.
Occasionally, I find an old piece of bread tucked behind the Japanese maple, and I wonder if you’re coming back for it.
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