There's a scraggly old maple twenty yards from me that sheds a few leaves every now and then when the wind blows. She's not a particularly handsome tree, and her leaves aren't as beautiful as her neighbours', but she stands alone in the autumn landscape and busies herself for Vermont's winter and the long sleep ahead. She stands alone in a clearing away from the woods, facing the tiny farm in the far, far distance, and when the wind blows through she shimmers and dances in the brilliant sunlight and lets loose a shower of gold.
I don't know how she does it, she seems to have an endless supply, but I peer to the tips of her branches and see that they are now bare. Whoosh-whoosh goes the wind, and another dozen leaves float to earth.
Her bark is spotted, this scraggly old maple, and strands of spider's silk waft gently from her branches, silent and glimmering in the late morning air. Whoosh-whoosh goes the wind, and a pair of bluejays eyes her warily, perched in the reds and scarlets of her next-door neighbours and declining her outstretched limbs.
The lone yellow maple stands alone and away from the woods, a solitary creature amidst fall's spectacular landscape, undressing unashamed in front of me. She is unassuming and unpretentious and demands no attention for beauty, and she stands quietly waiting for the colder months to arrive. Autumn is beautiful, she seems to agree, but the year has been long and difficult, and my branches hunger for winter's rest.
