Standing By the Sliding Door
Standing by the sliding door, staring at the yard, still, silent waterfall, pond with just a bubbler now that fall is on its way and winter is bearing down, goldfish rising to nibble the net, which catches leaves so they won’t float
to the bottom, I now see the wonderfully slim, flaky trunks of the birches, the long uplifted arms of the giant maple which three other seasons blocks my view of the magnificent carved out of the glacier dune, and then as always the
scaly trunks of the white pines with bushy bows reaching ever higher to the sun behind the clouds of fall, the fragile easily swaying trunks of the hemlocks and the arborvitaes who hold back the east winds
while spread around them all over the ground are drying, curling once green, now reddish brown ever duller yellowish tan leaves and a plush cushiony carpet of pine needles. The trees hold everything in place in this swaying sandy paradise.
My thoughts turn to William Wordsworth, “The child is father to the man, and I would wish that all my days be spent in natural piety.” And then as my spirit is lifted at the passing of one season to another and an affirmation of the glorious cycle of life,
and as I was just on the verge of profundity, peripheral vision caught a glimpse. There was the damnable burrowing rodent, Alvin, the chipmunk, scurrying into his hole right next to the pond.
I just know that he and Simon and Theodore are going to scratch through the liner of the pond while merrily squeaking some irritatingly obnoxious version of a Christmas carol and can you imagine the cost of repair or replacement?
Where is David Seville when you need him? Well, so much for that mood.