On the day to reset one’s clock, I head to my rustic, un-walled church. Few things clear the soul like a brisk fall morning hike. My trusty Escort wagon is the only car in the lot. No other humans are on the windy journey up the hillside. Crunchy leaves cover every step of the rocky path. Flocks of robins are rustled into the lower limbs; a smattering of song sparrows accompanies them on the fringes. A woodpecker flits and magically vanishes into a solid tree trunk. Jays and cardinals make appearances to share their colors, calling out so they're not missed. Wool hat and layers soon have me leaving a steaming trail.
In my jacket pocket are two milkweed pods--souvenirs from a joyous Greenway ride the previous balmy Sunday. The primary food source of the dwindling monarch butterfly, yet another canary silently pleading to be noticed in the cultural mine (or is it a minefield?) of which we claim ownership. I recall seeing their minor miracle a few years ago, while painting the exterior of a house. An incredible, a seemingly endless swath of butterflies passing overhead as far as the eye could see, literally for hours. I wonder how passenger pigeon flocks looked in their waning years…?
Reaching the summit I try not to think too much. I find an outcropping to launch these precious, diaphanous wings of hope. On this cold graying hilltop, there’s plenty of wind to float them beyond the trees, perhaps to a forgotten meadow or RoundUp free roadside; to a chance to take root, continue the mysterious cycle of growth. Maybe next spring some lucky caterpillars will find nourishment on them, emerge as another of the planet’s brilliant yet overlooked joyful wonders, or adults will take momentary refuge, savor a brief moment to refuel on their amazing trek to Mexico. I breathe in deeply, let go of some half-felt emotional weight my own, and watch my breath mingle with the seeds as the winds carry everything where it’s meant to go.
Time changes. Everything.
In my jacket pocket are two milkweed pods--souvenirs from a joyous Greenway ride the previous balmy Sunday. The primary food source of the dwindling monarch butterfly, yet another canary silently pleading to be noticed in the cultural mine (or is it a minefield?) of which we claim ownership. I recall seeing their minor miracle a few years ago, while painting the exterior of a house. An incredible, a seemingly endless swath of butterflies passing overhead as far as the eye could see, literally for hours. I wonder how passenger pigeon flocks looked in their waning years…?
Reaching the summit I try not to think too much. I find an outcropping to launch these precious, diaphanous wings of hope. On this cold graying hilltop, there’s plenty of wind to float them beyond the trees, perhaps to a forgotten meadow or RoundUp free roadside; to a chance to take root, continue the mysterious cycle of growth. Maybe next spring some lucky caterpillars will find nourishment on them, emerge as another of the planet’s brilliant yet overlooked joyful wonders, or adults will take momentary refuge, savor a brief moment to refuel on their amazing trek to Mexico. I breathe in deeply, let go of some half-felt emotional weight my own, and watch my breath mingle with the seeds as the winds carry everything where it’s meant to go.
Time changes. Everything.
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