“Winter arrives in light airy flakes billowed by the wind, or in thrilling messy clumps of wet snow, trailing out of the sky like wintry fireworks.”
By
Patrick J. Walsh
“Mother
Nature is weird.”
I’m
pretty sure that’s the likely verdict I’d hear if I were to bring up the
subject of the changing seasons with my friend who is twelve (soon to be
thirteen).
And
given the sequence of weather events in this area in recent days, with a
frightful hurricane followed by an unexpectedly strong snowstorm, I am inclined
to agree.
Like
most really smart young people, my friend has a way of reducing very large
problems to a series of simple declarative statements.
It’s
an ability that I think may well become the basis for a whole new approach to dealing
with the interdependent destinies of human beings and the natural world, as the
next generation gradually takes the place of those of us who currently ponder
those kinds of questions.
 |
| © Patrick J. Walsh |
I scan the patches of white on the dull gray grass where,
just a few weeks ago,
summer green seemed to be still growing...
As
I took my first look at the trees and fields of the park today, in the wake of
yesterday’s first snow of the winter season, I could not help but recall the
way the change of seasons felt when I was a child.
Back
then, I took note of every sign of the coming winter: the chill in the evening,
the falling leaves, the bare branches, the cold rain, and, finally, the arrival
of the first precipitation of the winter — in light airy flakes billowed by the
wind, or, like yesterday’s storm, in thrilling messy clumps of wet snow,
trailing out of the sky like wintry fireworks.
For
most of the years in which I have been around to experience it, the change from
Autumn to winter has been remarkably consistent. While it is sometimes
punctuated by some horror show of a hurricane, the actual transition from
season to season is usually marked by all of the familiar signs.
Which
of course makes it all the more fascinating to think about how so many of those
who live in this part of the country simply ignore the markers along the way,
until nature delivers a deliberate flourish like yesterday’s snowstorm, that we
have no choice but to acknowledge.
So
I scan the patches of white on the dull gray grass where, just a few weeks ago,
summer green seemed to be still growing; and I cast a mournful glance toward
the brown leaves that just days ago thrilled the soul with their bright colors.
I feel tired, and cold.
In
this frame of mind, it is not difficult to imagine the smudges of melting snow,
spread across the fields and threaded between the trees, as some careless trail
of broken egg shell, loosed upon a landscape not quite ready for the change, in
some weird masquerade of birth in reverse.
I
shiver, and inwardly complain about the cold and the prospect of long slogs on
snowy afternoons and walks cut short by early sunsets, forgetting for the
moment the long months of subtle signs that have, as always, brought me to this
moment of first encounter with another new winter.
Trudging
along the paved road, feeling strangely distant from the knoll just yards away,
I am momentarily heedless of the majesty of nature, as it keeps its promise
from season to season.
It
is only hours later that I finally reconcile myself to the arrival of this new
winter. And with that, I cannot help but chuckle at the thought that perhaps
Mother Nature isn’t the only one who’s weird, after all.
©
Patrick J. Walsh
The Walk in the Park series:
• The Men
• The Hawk
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