by Jonathan Shipley
October is my birth month, and autumn comes, as it does, with crispness in the air, color in the leaves, introspection in the mind, and Orion’s constellated arms reaching out to hold onto velvet nights.
The word autumn is derived from the Latin autumnus, possibly from an Etruscan root, autu-, connoting the passing of a year.
Fitting, then, to have my birthday fall in fall. Indeed, I am aging, the passing of a year, a day, a moment, as I walk the marsh. My legs are sore, and my eyesight is starting to wane. It’s harder to recognize the birds still bobbing in the reeds and trees. Was that a goldfinch or a common yellowthroat? A nearby marsh wren gives no answer.
I am melancholy this time of year, though the marshlands are far from such a state. The trees are still green, though reds and browns are starting to make their presence known. The wind is not sharp but a pleasant note that colder days are ahead.
The wind, in fact, takes me out of my melancholia, into a quiet delight. Tall grasses that move in the wind are called wind wolves, because of the way they sway in the breeze. It’s as if an animal is traversing the prairie.
I don’t know the last time a wolf made an appearance at Cherokee Marsh, though I know that its cousin, the coyote, makes appearances here. I have yet to see one with my eyes, dwindling season to season.
Summer is gone here. The sunflowers have gone. The garish warblers have flown to warmer climes. The placid river is no longer garlanded with white lotus. The trees are losing their emeralds to the gray thief skies. It is autumn at Cherokee Marsh, and the land is turning inward, beginning its transformation to survive the coming winter.
Saraswati is a Hindu goddess of wisdom, music, art, and knowledge. She’s also known as Sharada, the one who loves autumn. Perhaps she would love a moment here at this marsh in Wisconsin. It’s beautiful, still, regardless of whether the flowers have already had their wild parties of yellows, purples, and whites with butterflies in attendance.
The sumac is spreading along the riverside, its colors bleeding across the expanse. The Canada geese continue to clatter on the water and caterwaul against the brooding sky. Frogs leap. Killdeer call out, dart, and twirl. Sharada would like it here. She would find peace here.
And so do I. Indeed, my youthful days are gone. My summer is over. I ache. I have sleeping problems. I have issues with my skin that I haven’t had before. What dreams I had in my youth have been realized: my wife and family are at home as I walk the marsh, safe and beloved.
It is, in fact, the autumn of my life. Only gods, or goddesses, or, perhaps, Orion on high who knows when winter will come for me. In the meantime, I’ll cherish the turning trees, the phantom wolves, and the serenity of this place as it changes as I do, from life to life to life to life.
