November Siestas

November Siestas

~ by: Lansing Christman

On these November days of sun, I journey to the meadows and woodlands for a familiar siesta, a siesta of reverie and meditation. I go to the fields and marshes to be surrounded by the soft winds and murmuring rills. I go to lose myself among the trees and grass, the reeds and songs.

Beneath the open November sky, I can escape from the hustle of the world around me. It matters not that the fields are brown and sere or that the days are shorter. For there, with the arms of nature around me, I am secure and I am at peace. Except for the evergreens, the trees are leafless; and a bright world seems to open before my eyes, a world with an infinite sky of vibrant blue.

As I breathe in the autumn afternoon, I enjoy watching the long threads of gossamers sparkling in the sun as they float from tree and fence and stubble. I do not mind that the delicate strands may pass lightly over my brow and face and hands, much as they did long years ago when I was following the plow through the November fields.

If I go to the swamp in the valley between the hills, I like to think of it as a cozy room where I can listen and dream. I smile as I hear the bell-like notes of the tree sparrows and the songs of the nuthatch and chickadees. The wind whispers in the ears of the reeds and cattails, and the red berries of the alder radiate in the mellow sunlight.

It is November. Loveliness rests upon the land where I seek my siestas in the sun.