October Song

I sing a song of October.  I sing of mist-covered mornings when trees and grass drip with crystal dew.  Diamonds glisten on spider webs and wispy weeds long gone dry.

I walk the hill and  hear plain-song melody echoing through the cathedral of oaks arching over me.  Sunlight adds a note with honeyed-colored beams.  And all around me October sings.

At noontide I hear the birds calling to each other.  Here is a flock of meadowlarks.  They miss their friends who have traveled south with the season.  An eagle soars over the far hickory, now turning yellow in the waning light of autumn.  Far off maples are red.  Already bare branches of the walnut sway to the almost silent breath of wind singing softly through thin twigs that move with  dancer's grace.

Evening brings the strum of crickets in the brown grass.  The setting sun touches oak and pine with orange fire.  I can hear the wind moving through the trees down in the valley, a song that is old yet new.  The moon is rising in the east.  Clouds move across it's shining face and throw a net of shadow, catching and seeming to hold it in their grasp.  Finally it breaks free and soars above in velvet sky.  If I close my eyes I can hear the moon and stars singing in unison.  It is an ancient song.  It is the song of changing season.

And my heart joins in, singing that October song.