there were bursts of rain; the rain was cold. the wind had buffeted, beaten the trees, grabbed them by the shoulders like an angry husband. their finery, golden reds and oranges, tingling greens, deep purples and fiery browns had not been given up willfully. on the day before, they blazed proudly, catching light in their upturned palms and roaring, each tree a burning bush, and unconsumed. on the day before, the scant foliage sprinkled at their feet were so many sandles removed on the holy ground of backyards and grasspatches. but the next day, the wind came and plundered them, and the trees that clawed too tightly were left for the rain to pick off. it came in short, controlled bursts, combing through the trees and clogging the trench of the gutters with the dead and dying leaves. the rain, in its short duration, was particularly unmerciful.
i walked in it. why not? i had actually considered driving the two blocks to burger king, i had actually thought the wind, the spotty rain should be enough to make me get in my car. could it be enough, should it ever be enough? what did i have to fear from wind and rain? the sky, the weather, as brooding and violent as it was, was not out for me.
i walked to burger king, and i was only a little bit cold. above me, the clouds tossed and turned and coiled around themselves. yes, they were frightening. they were glowering at me, at the city, and at me, and the wind bellowed. i listened; but my name was not in it.
on my way i turned the corner: the sun dipped down, glazing the shredded trees and their wet black stems in cold light. slices and shafts of light struck the grass, the sidewalk, the wetness in the street, frosting it with a pale but indifferent smile. there was only a moment's worth of cheer in it. i turned my face into the wind, into the sun and thought: that is where this is coming from. the wind was blowing directly out of the sun. the sun, in ancient times, was the source of the wind and weather. it is the source of the wind in modern times too. i fear it doubly; as a modern man i know that we are only ancient men in modern times. it is terrifying: a broken seal, a burning censer, an eye-splitting angel with his mouth pursed on the last horn. today, though, it was not out for me.
i had eaten; i walked to the coffee shop, and it was clogged with customers, as if they too had been raked by the wind, fearing colds and runny noses, and other nameless illnesses no doubt carried in cold air and rain. i took my cup outside, to the empty patio, shivering until coffee warmed me. i read, and underlined, and read some more; "the Sorrows of Young Werther."
October 26th
...And my lively imagination carried me off to the bedside of these poor
people. I can see with what terrible resistance they turn their
backs
[sky got dark here]
on life...a stranger lies dying.
the sky got eerily dark, and it was not the darkness of twilight. it was as if the shadow of another season passed overhead. a season of the future? or one already long gone? it was dark, but soon, its eeriness had passed. it was like a breath of winter.
today, leaves litter the streets; their colors are already fading. the trees look bare and sorrowful. do they not know the price they would pay in the coming months to hang onto their leaves, their living pride? winter would crush them, would pull them down in boughfulls, would bury them under the weight of their ragged, snow-soaked garments. they would not live to see a new spring or ever bear new leaves. they should not fear the little death of autumn; there is life after it.
i too am shedding my leaves; i am clipping my hair, and growing a beard of clouds. my spring, i know, will one day come.
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