Autumn night.
Autumn is my favourite season, and part of what I like about it is the thrill of something darker and colder to come. The wind slides down alleyways and gusts out unexpectedly, lifting scarves and sending leaves to rasp and whirl as if in surprise or fright. Indian corn is tied with twine and tacked to doorframes, pumpkins and gourds huddle on stoops and porches and melted light spills from windows to pool on dark sidewalks. Winter whispers, and something in people answers with totems and symbols and wards.
Walking home from the laundromat tonight, I left the warm smells of soap and clean cotton behind me and, even in the city, caught a hint of woodsmoke on the air. I was halfway down the old, uneven brick sidewalk when I heard the whoops and cheers spill out of the corner bar and into the night... Philadelphia won the World Series. Car horns started honking... in my narrow street, tucked away from the main thoroughfares, I heard them call and answer, like animals seeking one another in a forest. Autumn adds a touch of the wild, the pagan, the primeval, you know--even to baseball.
I came home just in time to take the pumpkin pies from the oven. I love almost everything about pumpkin pie... the aroma is so sweet and spicy, the colour is so rich and seasonal, the texture is richly creamy but still firm. I simply do not like the taste of pumpkin, so my pies are flavoured with giving, as well, and what feels better than that? I am so tense about everything--changes in my personal life, the stress, ugliness and negativity of these final days before the election--that I need to steal small comforts where I can find them.
It's these autumn nights that draw something mystical from the marrow of my bones... a strong dose of fox medicine. Sometimes I wish there were magic enough in the world that I could change my shape and run on fleet fox feet for a while underneath a huge and yellow harvest moon.
Sometimes, in fall, something in me wants to run.
Walking home from the laundromat tonight, I left the warm smells of soap and clean cotton behind me and, even in the city, caught a hint of woodsmoke on the air. I was halfway down the old, uneven brick sidewalk when I heard the whoops and cheers spill out of the corner bar and into the night... Philadelphia won the World Series. Car horns started honking... in my narrow street, tucked away from the main thoroughfares, I heard them call and answer, like animals seeking one another in a forest. Autumn adds a touch of the wild, the pagan, the primeval, you know--even to baseball.
I came home just in time to take the pumpkin pies from the oven. I love almost everything about pumpkin pie... the aroma is so sweet and spicy, the colour is so rich and seasonal, the texture is richly creamy but still firm. I simply do not like the taste of pumpkin, so my pies are flavoured with giving, as well, and what feels better than that? I am so tense about everything--changes in my personal life, the stress, ugliness and negativity of these final days before the election--that I need to steal small comforts where I can find them.
It's these autumn nights that draw something mystical from the marrow of my bones... a strong dose of fox medicine. Sometimes I wish there were magic enough in the world that I could change my shape and run on fleet fox feet for a while underneath a huge and yellow harvest moon.
Sometimes, in fall, something in me wants to run.