Autumnal Baptism

The crunch of leaves underfoot is heard.
Gazing intently, I behold the form.
I freeze in hope and utter no word.

I ease up my rifle, my soul is stirred.
My cheek rests on walnut, scratched and warm.
The crunch of leaves underfoot is heard.

I whisper “Quiet!”, though my voice is slurred.
Deep inside my chest there rages a storm.
I freeze in hope and utter no word.

My heart is aflutter, like some startled bird.
Where once there was control, chaos is the norm.
The crunch of leaves underfoot is heard.

I regain my senses and my confidence gird.
I kiss gently the trigger and death’s rites perform.
I freeze in hope and utter no word.

My quarry stricken, my senses are blurred.
To eons of tradition, I willingly conform.
The crunch of leaves underfoot is heard.
I freeze in hope and utter no word.

College Apartment/The Coming of Autumn/She Moves Through the Fair

The Golden Window

The manner in which one is wakened each morning has a tremendous impact on the way that the day proceeds. Too many of us, unfortunately, are awakened by the obnoxious buzz of an alarm clock or the overbearing tones of a clock-radio. As a result, our days reflect these annoyances. Instead of revealing the smiles that we all keep veiled we snarl and stare and approach life as one whose very existence is an inconvenience to nature. Yet, life does not have to be this way.


I am a great connoisseur of slumber. I rarely have trouble sleeping and make the most out of each opportunity to do so. Yet, Thoreau reminds me that “It is unwise to keep the head long on a level with the feet.” As usual, he is correct. Given the stark settings of the city and its bothersome noises I tend to shut myself up in my abode and sleep until the latest possible hour. But in the country where nature provides the apparatus for waking, there is a different tale to be told.
This morning I lay nestled in my bed, swaddled in comfortable quilts and resting with great peace. I awoke with joy like few people have the opportunity to do. This was my gift from September. The breeze that caressed me as I slumbered told me a story that few people can narrate. Nature is changing. She is coming!
Now, I know that in my pseudo-mystical nature-child rambling I have completely lost you. “She” is the one. Earlier today I would have said that she was my (and many others’) mistress. But, after deeper contemplation that simply would not be befitting. In fact, it is potentially blasphemous. “She” is more than mere words can relate: a muse, a mentor, a lover, a provider. She is the enigma of inspiration, motivation, admiration and adoration.
She is fall. She is coming.





Nature does not tell lies. I have sworn by this and have been called idiotic on several occasions for saying it. The morning breeze today brought the song of a new season from afar. It foretold of change, and beauty, and long-awaited promise. This breeze was tinged with the spirit of ripening apples, of curling chimney smoke, of shaking corn husks and of the song of flights of geese. Likely many of you were up much earlier than I was this morning and did not discern any of these qualities. Nature may not lie to you, but she does dabble in the art of subtlety. Sure, it is 95 degrees now and the sun still beams with an inescapable intensity. Regardless, the wind continues to whip and the secrets of autumn hang like awaiting birds over the crop ready for harvest.





Besides the wind, what else foretells the coming fall? Why, my demeanor, of course! Had I not been rousted by the rejuvenating gale this morn I would like many others stomp and demean the very ground that I walked upon. Summer to me is like a family relative that while not disliked, must be tolerated with some difficulty. No longer! Let them be gone on to greener pastures! My domain is now my own.

Wishing I Were on the Hillside

The prairie grass dances and tickles my side. I sit on the hilltop and look out over the ranch. The increasingly crisp autumn breeze caresses my face as if to say that I am truly home. I pluck a stalk of Indian-grass and place it in my teeth—the flavor of grain and loam completes my sensory euphoria. I am relaxed in my natural haven, yet contemplative. Should there really be more to life than this? I turn and look towards my home. Smoke from the first fire of the year rises lazily from the chimney. Post-oak. I guess Mom is cold already. I’m not. I am perfect. In this moment my very spirit is satisfied. I see the garden, turned, and brimming with stubble. The fresh corn is gone now, but I can still taste it. An ear of corn, and a diminutive quail roasted over coals. Has anyone ever dined so fairly? My eyes shift; my contemplation broken by movement on the horizon. A nervous coyote steals down the hill and towards the timberline. Are he and I so different? He is better at the game of life than I am. No doubt. Coyotes don’t have to make excuses or meet deadlines; coyotes don’t worry about taxes or getting into grad school. Coyotes just exist. They eat, sleep, love, and live. He melds into the brush before we can connect too strongly and I miss him instantly. I have lost a brother. I want to call for him, but I don’t have the words. Do we ever? I howl anyways. I howl about who I am, how I feel, and what I lack. Whitman and I both sound our barbaric yawps over the rooftops of the world. Two doves afflicted by my wail cross hastily over the surface of our pond and alight on the dam. As they flee the sound of their wings makes my heart beat faster; I swing an imaginary shotgun to intersect them and then smile. From the brush I am taught in the linguistics of the wild; a howl emanates from behind a pecan tree. My brother hasn’t forgotten me. I am humbled by his consideration. I dust off my hat and amble towards the oil lamp in the distant window. Life goes on.