It Is The Magic Time of the Year

by Aine L Bastille Arthen

It is the magic time of year. Trees hasten to robe themselves for this event. It is harvest all around us regardless of whether we've planted beds of vegetables and fruit. The harvest of the forest comes unaided by human hands.

Fruit everywhere has ripened and their babies are strewn through the air, the water, and the earth. They bed themselves down to dream of what they will become. Some babies become lost in this sleep, their dream images not strong enough to prepare themselves for the blossoming of Spring. But right now in autumn it is harvest time and these bright possibilities are planted and do their internal work for the coming Spring.

The air seems to know this for it takes on a crispness, a clean feel to it. Like a new party dress, fresh and clean, put on to welcome the bedding of these young babies.

The trees celebrate their heirs, proud as they are of the future, with fine multicolored robes. Hopeful are the reds yellows and oranges they wear. They costume the forest, showing by their dress exactly how bright the future in the hands of their babies will be.

Animals, too, begin their long dance into winter. Some gather the nourishment they need before they bed tenderly down with their cubs. Others joyously soar through the clean autumn air showing off the strong babies - future ancestors to the flock. They yell out cheers to all below as they make their way to their winter homes.

To these beings Autumn is full of the bright promises of their heritage. They shrink not from the coming dark. They know that within the dark night of winter the dreaming of the future begins. Joyfully they prepare to become ancestors to their young - it is obvious by their colors, by their persistent ripening that brings them to this time. This is their dance at the magic time of year.