November Woods Song
By Kate Parlin
November descends darkly,
a drifter caught in the doldrums
between the glorious ecstasy of October and the bright promise of December.
I have never liked it.
And yet.
Today we are free,
released from school, from work, from our four walls of everyday sameness,
given the gift of these hours before the darkness.
So here we are, in these quiet November woods.
The gray-green air a gentle ghost,
sliding softly around us.
You are leaping, laughing, the afternoon leaf-light dancing in your hair.
A flurry of searching, and our hands find the smoothest stones,
the softest bark,
the most perfect pinecones.
Leaves shuffle softly as you slip
over stones and branches,
through moss and dirt.
Your voices rise like bright bubbles,
floating up into the smooth gray sky.
We lose minutes.
We lose our way.
We find peace.
And then.
Sound breaks through the trees, notes high and sweet.
For a ridiculous second I think we have conjured magic,
that a forest sprite has stirred up the stillness of these woods,
drawn, as we are, to their quiet mystery.
But when we go very still, we can hear.
Bagpipes.
Mourning and celebrating, all at once,
music wheeling over the air to the tops of the pines, the mountains, the sky.
This is November: shouting, weeping, whirling, singing.
And it is beautiful.
Our feet move us toward the sound.
I walk faster and faster.
You are torn between your desire to walk with me
and your need to say goodbye to every path,
to touch each tree,
to send your kisses to the clouds.
But I’m running now, filling my lungs with this woods magic,
and with every step I breathe out a silent
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
