Illuminated by the descending sun, in that afternoon light that is made all the more glorious for its fleeting trajectory, these straps of fountain grass have dried completely into the straw-colored stalks you see here. Topped by the plumes of their seedheads, little mops of fluffy tentacles, they sway and move in the slightest breeze, creating their own symphony of light and sound. Against a blue sky that has somehow retained more color than late November skies typically harbor, the grass rustles and murmurs – sometimes in a whisper, sometimes in a hiss, sometimes in a harsh tear – dead and dry leaves rubbing wickedly against one another. It is the music of another world, not usually heard or understood or appreciated by human ears.
In our backyard, the squirrels rush by in small groups, chasing each other in some mad quest for more seeds and acorns, while the birds still haunt the bare stalks of the cup plant and seven sons’ flower tree, hoping to find some missed fruit of late summer hidden among the stems. Andy and I watch them go by, and though the day has grown relatively warm for this time of the year, it’s still cozier to be on the inside looking out.
The sunlight leaves quickly after that. During my meditation, I sense the rapid draining of light from the sky, as the candle before me grows brighter in comparison. It was a sunny day, much appreciated in November, and gone much too soon; there is less than a month left of fall, and then the entirety of winter beyond that.
I keep the music of the grass in my head, the sweetness of its rustle and cut, the way the most tattered things still manage to make something beautiful when singled out and heard.
