Fall comes fast now.
I know, I know; the calendar insists that it is still summer, at least for five more days. The truth of the matter is that here, it is both summer and fall, and has been since July. In this old weathered world, the seasons are showing signs of fraying around the edges — indeed, at times, of unraveling entirely.
The trees on the peaks began turning several days ago; by now, gold and amber and bronze cascade in small falls down their slopes on all sides. Here at their feet, even the greenest trees are showing signs of going gold; some have long since passed fully into dormancy, their leaves dry and pale and curled, disintegrating a little further every time a trickster wind spirals past, falling to the ground to crumble into dust in the heat of the afternoon sun and decay beneath the weight of such dew as morning deigns to give.
The elements are harsh here, at any season: hot sun, high winds, wild extremes of temperature in spring and, in an ordinary year, the heavy monsoons of summer. But our world here is now making ready for the truly hard months, in a year that holds out the hope of heavy winter.
Now, we wary that such are false promises, but hope is a stubborn thing.
And these days, these early days of autumn, the earth makes ready with us: exchanging sedate green robes for a shawls in a riot of brilliant shades, whirling in one final long dance with the fading light before shedding its regalia entirely for the long sleep beneath winter’s blanket.
It’s easy, at this time of year, to fall into the trap of focusing on the decay. So many people dislike this season, not merely winter’s herald not only a harbinger of disintegration but an agent of the process.
But it misses the essential point. The earth teaches us, with the aid of the seasons, that disintegration is merely a way of reforming the masonry, that weathering reduces mass naturally, providing leaner lines upon which to rebuild. The people here have always known this, of course; they originated the organic earthen architecture that withstands centuries, millennia, even, permitting rebuilding and resurfacing without much need for structural change.
Not far up the road is a small adobe ruin, once a house constructed in the old way, nestled among the evergreens and cottonwoods and mostly shielded from view. Even less is visible now; long since abandoned to the elements, its strong sturdy walls erode at a glacial pace, beams bowing low to allow the clay someday to become one again with the earth whence it came. It shows at this season because the trees are beginning to discard their yellowing leaves, and at the right time of the day, Father Sun catches the facade and holds it for a time, as though to say, “I remember you.”
It is a place of weathered earth and golden light, much like this land as a whole at this hour.
It will stand for many more generations yet before it gives itself over wholly to the ground . . . and when it does, that same earth will rebuild again, whether in another home or simply in the spread of the trees.
And once again, the masonry is reformed.
~ Aji
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