| The Passing of the Seasons Crisp brown leaves crunch underfoot. The air is brisk as I walk my dog down to the river. She runs ahead of me, confused at the leaves that fall on her from the foliage above. Around me the land is a golden-reddy-brown, as it settles down to its annual rest. The trees begin to look dead, though they're not, and the annoying summer insects disappear. It is autumn in the Graham Valley. The weather gets colder and drearier as it leads into winter. The days blend into one another in a monotonous blur of grey skies and brown land. I put away my sandals, and get out my boots. I add an extra duvet to my bed. When I wake up in the morning it is cold and dark. The year is turning. Months pass, and on my way down to the river with my dog, I see the first lamb. It wobbles a bit and then approaches its mother, shoving at her underside, trying to get a drink. The patient, gentle ewe tolerates her offspring's demands, and just continues munching grass contentedly. The air smells clean and fresh, almost sweet. The Earth is awakening. Slowly she pushes up new green shoots, and the apple trees burst into blossom. It gets warmer and lighter, so fast it seems almost instantaneous. Now when I wake up, the sun is already overhead, its bright rays streaming through my window, and I can get out of bed without shivering. The landscape is lovely, renewed. It's spring in the Graham Valley. |