It’s a bit later than I would have liked to be out. About an hour before the sky turns indigo, I walk into my spot. The remaining yellow leaves on the Beeches around me flutter in the wind, creating a small whirring noise that tickles the back of my mind. I shiver– I should have brought a jacket with me, all I have is a sweatshirt and I regret it. The cold follows the wind, spraying into my face in irregular gusts. The only sounds beyond that of the wind in the leaves are the distant noise of Burlington’s traffic and my small puffs of breath. Since the last time I was in my sit spot, the leaves on the hardwoods have yellowed and left their home to meet the ground. A carpet of rotting, brown leaves crunches under my feet as I move around– the majority of the leaves belonging to Sugar Maple, Northern Red Oak, and American Beech. Now the hardwood trees are bare, their arms reaching out to the sky like a silent plea for forgiveness. Those that still have their leaves cling to them, causing the battle between the breeze that predominates the forest’s silence.
The Ferns have mostly died off at this point; only a few remain green and visible to my eye. They shelter next to downed trees, as if they were a child begging to be let into a locked house. Above them, unchanging, are the guardians of the forest– Eastern White Pines. They cling to their dagger-like needles, refusing to budge despite the frost. They remain green in a dormant landscape. Contrast to the bare limbs of our hardwoods, the Eastern White PInes stand in opposition to heavens, almost as if saying that not even the gods can change them. Eastern Hemlocks below their big brothers in the evergreen world follow suit, clinging to their tiny green needles as well. These two trees refuse to be influenced by the cold or wind to drop their leaves. Further next to them stand a few solitary snags– dead trees that are still upright. Though they no longer live, they provide habitat and shelter for the creatures of the forest– making them a comforting presence. Their dead, decaying limbs also stand up to the sky, although much weaker than their living counterparts. They are fading embers that look to the sky for their future.
I look up– the yellowing leaves, green needles, and bare limbs all make for a striking canopy. A true memento of what time is doing– symbols of past, present, and future for the forest.
