Piedmont Gardener

This past week, mornings have been misty, some days even downright foggy. Canopy giants on the floodplain loom indistinctly, shadows of their normal selves. Much like falling snow, swirling mists quiet the landscape. Birds remain silent as a growing moon sets in the west while Venus shines brightly in the eastern sky. Lingering leaves on branches hang limp as fingers on a relaxed hand.

Golden light tinges the eastern horizon, coloring the mists that begin to rise as the sun’s rays touch them. A tall sourwood growing beside my window is set ablaze. Its vivid scarlet and gold leaves always make me gasp. 

As autumn colors are awakened by the rising light, I breathe more deeply, pulling the light and dancing mists into my heart, my lungs, until my toes tingle with energy.

Birds begin to talk among themselves. A murder of fish crows currently residing on the adjacent wetland takes to the air, first in ones and twos, then dozens. Their familiar “uh-oh” calls echo through the rising mists. On the beaver-built pond, I hear the high whistles of the green-winged teals that claim it as their winter water. A belted kingfisher makes its first pass above the creek seeking breakfast; its raucous rattle call is better than any alarm clock.

This place, these mornings tether me to earth, sky, and water. Despite human-made turmoil, despite ongoing climate-change catastrophes that hurt my heart, golden morning mists and the final colors of autumn give me hope, remind me to breathe, and to trust that life will go on.

Peace to one and all.