"October"

October - by Jesse J. Mara

           I stood on the bridge in the city park in the desolation of autumn.

I had not planned to walk this way, but I had nothing better to do at the time. The leaves of the Oaks and Maples that two months ago were vibrant greens now lay in a thin layer like orange-brown paper mache, clinging to the contours of the ground. 

I took my pipe from my front coat pocket, cradling the warm briar in my hands as I leaned on the iron railing, and glanced up through the tangle of branches to a sky, sullen and grey. Drops of cold wetness struck my face and hands. It wasn't a steady methodical rainfall, just random unnecessary drops that the greedy, low-hanging clouds had no time to account for as they sailed quickly by.

A solitary crow flew just above the barren treetops, heading north; it's wing feathers splayed like a set of blades. It flapped just once, gliding on a headwind, as it surveyed its surroundings. It seemed to take no notice of me standing on the bridge, cradling the briar. But I couldn't be sure.

I struck a match, and the chilly wind blew it out instantly. The second match fell from my numb fingers and spiraled in the eddies till it landed on the footpath twelve feet below. I lit a third and cupped it gently in my hands. It quavered, then flared, and I fed it to the bowl. The pungent leaves glowed a deep orange as the fragile flame bent down to touch them. The rich aroma filled my senses, and the rain began to fall; not heavily, but methodically. I acknowledged the gesture. The clouds had allowed me to kindle my pipe.

I turned up my collar, hunched my shoulders, and walked on.

Immersed in desolation I gradually became aware of an intense beauty. Something that lay deep inside, underground, unseen, and unrealized.

An unexpected wave euphoria struck me and left me feeling giddy. As the cold drops struck my face, I felt a kind of pleasure that I had not felt in warmer weather when the trees proudly wore their new garments and the sun ruled the sky; when for breakfast greedy robins pulled fat worms from the ground, and swallows gorged on butterflies; where the clouds were dazzling white like cotton candy at a festival, sailing at high altitude – remote, detached and unconcerned.

The circle goes on regardless of what we desire or how we plan. Always death followed by life and life by death. An end for a beginning and a beginning for an end. The day of one's birth is the beginning of a journey to death – and the day of one's death is the beginning of a new life; somewhere, somehow.

The profoundest beauty of Spring lies somewhere within the desolation of Autumn: when it's dusk at noon, where the rain is cold and hard – just before it turns to snow. This typically happens during the last week of October or the first week of November, and is always presided over by crows, who, through a kind of magic, ensure a peaceful transition into winter.