BY LESLIE REGO
Thomas Hood (1789–1845), an English poet, wrote in his poem The Season:
“Boughs are daily rifled
By the gusty thieves,
And the Book of Nature
Getteth short of the leaves.”
It is an autumn day and I am walking amongst the brilliantly lit aspen trees. I am seeing that, indeed, there have been “gusty thieves” aplenty, because many of the trees that just a couple of days ago were resplendent with their autumn finery are now bare, the branches revealing themselves against the sky.
Nestled in the fork of two branches in a bare aspen I spy a nest that was once concealed amongst the foliage. I peer into the cavity to see what materials were used to make the delicate home. I see many twigs interwoven together—the larger ones used on the outside, the smaller ones reserved for the inside. Soft leftover seed heads, probably from last autumn, line the bottom, along with a fair amount of mud. Interwoven with the twigs are dried blades of grass.
Emily Brontë wrote, “Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree.” A breeze picks up and the leaves drift down. The sun glints through them and it appears as if golden rain were falling. This is a vision of peace and resignation at the same time. The hillsides are lit up, the brilliant yellows surrounded by the deep greens of the pines. I am aware the gold will soon be gone.
The tall dry grass is whispering to me, swaying with a gust of air. More leaves surrender to the inevitable coming of winter. An October day is like a beautiful dream, so real when we are in the midst of it, but all too brief. The “Book of Nature” is getting short of leaves.
Leslie Rego is an Idaho Press Club award-winning columnist, artist and Blaine County resident. To view more of Rego’s art, visit leslierego.com.