To those of us who walk in the wild places every day, the seasons are old friends we meet once a year. This year, fall did not come by touching my face, as it usually does, instead it came to me as a quiet realization as I walked my road.

Clouds curl over the rising sun. From pink to orange and then to yellow-pearl, they gather and ascend. By the time I turn to walk back home, they have completely disappeared into the blue. A flock of jays has gathered in the orchard. Calling their bird messages, they whirl together into the air. Stragglers fly from tree top to tree top. Every September the blue jays have a noisy reunion. Do jays migrate? Do I have different jays in summer than in winter? Otherwise, why do they gather? Maybe they are just sociable and get together to talk. They do have a varied vocabulary. It contains everything from a melodic whisper to a yell. Or maybe they just get together for a few laughs, as we laugh at "Baker's Blue Jay Yarn" by Mark Twain. Only the blue jays know for sure why they gather in the fall.

Image (right): Autumn Hill

September is a special month for me. It is when I began my journey through life on earth. This year, on the night of the full moon, I sat in my rocker and enjoyed my gift of moonlight. It is one of my dreams to see geese fly across the moon. If I ever succeed, you will know. There will be a rocking chair, with me in it, rocking in the crater of the moon, for that is how high my heart will soar.

This afternoon, I walk around the edge of a big field. Many of the summer birds are gone, and I no longer hear a whir of wings every time I brush through the wildflowers.

At one spot, birds are flickering in and out of the trees. I stoop and wait. A first-year male scarlet tanager, with orange-yellow breast and new-black wings, flies to perch near me. At the same moment, a small black and orange bird lights on a broken branch overhead. It is a redstart.

Two female hummingbirds have been hovering around me all the while I have been hidden. They are within arms reach. When they light on the flowers, I can hear them chirping softly to each other. Until now, I've known only the music of their wings, that unmistakable, dense hum. But now I am privy to their conversations.

When I finally stand up after camouflaging myself, I have to live through the torturous tingle in my legs and feet from having crouched too long. But who cares? Beauty has come my way.

As I walk home, twilight nears. Fall is penetrating everywhere. There is a silver setting sun, an edge of moon, a cool breeze and a cap of clouds that the wind has carded into rolags ready for spinning. Vibrant green is gone from the woods' edges. Rings of red show on the leaves of sassafras trees, on the Virginia creepers and on the wahoo pods.

Orange and black have been the colors of the day. Now, monarch butterflies swirl along the roadway, almost as thick as bees. I could reach out and catch a handful, but I do not. I ask a poetic question of one that floats near my face.

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