OCTOBER STIRS GYPSY BLOOD, AS THE HUNTER'S MOON LOOKS ON

October days stir the gypsy blood. I want to close the doors behind me and take to the woods, literally. The Missouri woods, that is. I'm sure the maples in Vermont and the aspens in Colorado are lovely, but give me the whole crazy colored patchwork of Shepherd, Stono, Brown, Buford and Simms Mountains. Throw in Tip Top, Proffit Mountain, the hills of Trail of Tears, and the maples at Glennon for good measure.

Like walking through a fabric store, seeing the colors and fingering the bolts of cloth to feel the texture of velvet, satin, cotton and corduroy, I pick up fallen leaves and do the same, except that I add another dimension by smelling their faint autumness and sometimes nip at the stems to see what taste of the season I might detect. The sassafras leads in this category, although, blindfolded, I think I could detect the walnut.

"Some day, you're going to get hold of the wrong one," I've been cautioned, over and over. But I don't think so. I'm not going to bite into the poison ivy or oak vine, the grown pokeberry stalks, sumac, hemlock and wild black cherry leaf stems. One learns about these things along the way.

All summer I hosed, or swept, my blacktop driveway, trying for neatness, but now that the half-star, golden, sweet gum leaves adorn it, I do not disturb this new decoration. Farther up the driveway, the brilliant red maple leaves look like decals stuck on the black, put there, no doubt, by the "little people" who ride the winds and long silken spiderwebs. I run over the leaves with the car, almost hopeful they will somehow be imprinted and preserved in the black asphalt.

Once a week, though, the lawnmower man blows them aside and there's nothing but blacktop waiting, like a canvas, for a new arrangement of the outrageously colored leaves.

The Hunter's Moon, the full moon of October, will come to us on the 30th, barely making it. Let's hope the skies will be clear so that at night you might look out a favorite watching window and see what the midnight rabbits are doing, assuming you have some around your place. The bright moonlight fools the rabbits, or else they know it is a good time to come frolic in the yard when they have it all pretty much to themselves, without any dog-bark or crow-caw. I've seen only two rabbits at a time around my place this summer. They come out on a bright moonlit night and play complicated games of starts and stops, high jumps and low cowerings. One wonders if the actions are dictated by shifting shadows and wind drafts or whether there is some sense to it.

I'm often awake on full moon midnights (aren't all lunatics!), and feel the tug of the outdoors at that hour.

I would dearly love to walk amongst the cedars, pick off a blue seed, clearly seen, mash it between my fingers to get the pure essence of the cedar odor -- so clean, so pure and pungent. I'd like to amble along the lattice fence and admire the beautiful checked pattern it and the moonlight must make there, stop under the sweet gum tree until a half dozen colored leaves have tangled in my hair, sit on the garden seat to listen and separate the sounds of the various crickets, the tree frog down along the creek and wonder how far away the cat fight is. I'd wonder if, at midnight same as noon, the small rasping sounds that sometimes goes on underneath the seat is a field mouse, Old Stripe, or the troll. Thinking it to be Old Stripe, I'd, no doubt, pick up my feet and sit sixteen-year-old-like, if I could manage it. I'd hope the field mouse was discovering a comfortable home in the drifted leaves. As for the troll, he'd be welcome. I'm sure he's unhappy with the temporary bridge that was placed across the creek during the fair and, at this writing, still remains. It's not romantic nor storybook-like, enough for him. Me neither.

This desired Hunter's Moon midnight walk-about is just full moon mental rambling. Should it take place, some neighbor, coming home late from a party, might see me weaving about the bushes in my quilted robe and soft shoes and call 911. What could I say? "No, I have no gun? No, I haven't been drinking? No, I don't use street drugs. I came out here to surmise if the troll who used to live down there in the park, underneath the little arched bridge, was taking up residence under my garden seat. They are not supposed to be seen, you know, and only move at night time?"

REJOICE!