'Tis the season of the leaves. As they drift and swirl and whirl from yard to yard, some would call them restless. I call it their great Fall Prom in celebration of their season's end and graduation to a new dimension.
One would think their flurries across the yard were guided by the black iron weather vane rooster. When he points south, here come the leaves from my southern neighbors' maple trees to inquire of my oak, sweet gum and maple leaves if they may have the next dance.
There in the far corner is an Irish jig going on. Slow waltzes occur in sheltered spots on the north side of buildings, but out in the open spaces there is a happy mixture of the Two Step, the Fox Trot, minutes and polkas, any dance one can think of. Sunshiney, yellow maple leaves catch the crimson ones in my yard and do a frenzied Jitterbug.
Tiring of my dance floor they move on to my northern neighbors' yard to mingle and change partners with the soft maple and redbud partners.
Should the black rooster gradually point to the north, here the leaf dancers all come back again, a little more frayed around the edges but more spirited than ever, the beat of whatever music they hear having raised the tempo. Across my yard they dance and into my southern neighbors' yard again, some groups so caught up in gaiety they swirl right up into a wild excitement of a whirlwind.
The rooster rarely turns due east, but occasionally due west, and then in come the little elm leaves and the great yellow leaves of my pawpaw trees. Note the plural of trees. Several sprouts have been allowed to grow, to top water drainage, I hope, but also to add such golden color to the great Fall Festival of the leaves.
There was a small cartoon in the daily paper last week. Some motorists, passing through somewhere, stopped to ask someone, "Is there anything but leaves going on here?" Perhaps the motorists were referring to much advertised nature walks and drives to see the autumn spectacular, a mutant, perhaps, of an aurora borealis only with more lasting color. On the other hand, the motorists may have been thinking of the leaves that somehow creep into the doorways and get inside the house, that get onto the car's floorboards, that land and stick, unnoticed, in one's hair, to even get, mysteriously, in a pocket.
Perhaps no one loves leaves more than children and dogs. Out my kitchen window I can see them playing in great wigwams or igloos of leaves, getting lost in them and suddenly reappearing through the top like a chimney.
Some grown-ups like leaves too, especially the grown-up, author/lecturer, Dr. Leo Buscaglia. He speaks of his love for leaves, especially the dried ones. He took two tow sacks full of them home with him, across the continent, stashing them in the carry-on space of a plane.
Leaves never die. They either go up in smoky gas to be turned into atoms of a different kind or sink into the ground in some form to go on to other realms that eventually help to make more leaves.
REJOICE!
Jean Bell Mosely is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.
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