I remember those days of toiling in the yard, out in the rain, cold yet sweating at the same time. We had a maple tree out on the far piece as we called it, encircled by a guard of cedars. It was a big tree. A colourful tree when the cool air turned the sap to molasses. Those big spikey leaves with ends resembling a crown, slowly turning from green to brown, to orange then gold with a hint of red. Its branches once filled with floppy green flags shading us on those hot summer days, now curling and dry, no longer supple nor carefree when the wind blows.
I can see myself raking piles and piles of those dead, crunchy bits, leaving mounds like molehills dotted across the far piece. Of friends and neighbouring kids falling into those soft cushions despite being dead. The earthy smells of damp grass, the soggy dirt. Rain drenched damp leaves a perfect haven for slugs, snails, and bugs. I loved how life receded when crisp breezes blew in.
The heavy dews turning white with age, becoming crisp and crunchy just as those leaves spiralled down. I miss those days of changing colours, swirling leaves and crunches under feet as if stepping on chips. The procession from the dog days of summer.
A slumbering nature awaiting the big freeze.