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An Appalachian Autumn
There is a smell of wood smoke in the air in the evenings. There always seems to be a smell of wood smoke in the evenings this time of year, and it brings on memories of an older, simpler time.
The Black Gum is bright on the wood edges, making a splash of crimson, and the Sourwood decorates the roadsides with a bronze-purple. The Virginia Creeper has hanging garlands of bright red in the branches of the still green hardwoods. It is like an orchestral chord to the sight, seen in the light of the westering sun.
Purple asters dot the old worn out fields with their color, and the white asters can make an old field look snow covered.
Frost settled in the creek bottom last night, as the cool air descended the hill sides, losing even more of its heat to the open sky and deep space, and a mist formed that seemed like a living entity, smelling like wood smoke.
The sun is on its southward journey now, leaving us with long cold nights and abbreviated days, and Nature takes notice, some things going to sleep, others waking up. The stately oaks will turn a deep purple while the maples will become a riotous red. Other oaks will turn a gentle yellow, and the Birch in the higher reaches will become a bright, almost shiny, yellow. Some of the tiny Orchids will send up leaves where they live in the shade of the great hardwoods all summer; now they will get some light, at least for a while.
Fall always brings up memories, with the smell of wood smoke. A clawhammer banjo played in the evenings for a dance, or a deer hide drum played for a much older dance. Deer ghosting through the woods, a Grouse explodes from cover and rockets away. There is a lot of mast this year; the Oaks have been bountiful, especially the White and Chestnut Oaks. The Black Bear will not go hungry this year, nor the Whitetail Deer or the Turkey. Nor will the Wild Boar, who can make a hillside look like a ploughed field with his incessant rooting. Snakes are making their way to their dens, if they are not there already, and the Chipmunk is busy getting her larder ready, occasionally giving a shrill "cheeeee!" at any sign of danger, real or imagined.
A Naturalist notices these things, the great clock of the Earth moving through the orb of the Solar System. Garden Spiders make their nursery web to house their precious eggs, and the last Katydids can be heard calling at a slow rate; soon they will be heard no more until Summer is hard upon us.
The air is sweet now, seeming more breathable. The sky is that hard, bright blue that is only seen at this time of year. And in the evenings, the smell of wood smoke.
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