Autumn Flights

Autumn is dipping its toes in the water, not quite ready for a full plunge but satisfyingly wet in Asheville. The sourwoods’ burgeoning reds and the creeping yellow emerging on the tulips poplars dot the mountainsides and neighborhoods with color. Our park, too, blushes among the green. I love October and its characteristic blue skies that beckon to be faced full on and I find myself on my back along a bench, against the leaf-littered grass, on soccer turf, my face yielding completely to sky and sun. The intermittent clouds seem to sit against a glass floor, pressed flat into the same plane below and typically cumulus above. They gather in small groups, if at all, and my teenager find this curious, “as though,” she remarks, “they’ve all been invited to the same party.” (My teenager, while accommodatingly miserable and angst ridden on facebook is surprisingly charming and enjoyable at home.)

Even the night skies seem especially clear and star-laden despite the electricity-infused glow from the earth. As the kids prepared to camp together at my brother’s home, I found myself gazing toward the heavens from the Atlanta backyard and following the busy traffic that moved among the stars. I grew envious of the travelers shooting across the wide, sparkling sky over the world below with its vast expanse of dark and over bustling pockets of artificial glimmer. The girls settled into sleeping bags, searching for another bite of favorite family camping trips that age like wine over time into rich, full-bodied memories of togetherness and the outdoors, unmarred by recollections of unceasing rain and leaking tents or bug-obstructed views. Although the day had been warm enough for the kids to swim in the creek where we picnicked for Miren’s birthday, the night quickly turned cold and I left Lise, Lauren and Miren for the warmer house.

The temperatures plunge even deeper in Asheville and the night’s chill lingers in the rooms and settles on the leather couch where Rem and I snuggle under a fleece throw while I sip through a rather large mug of coffee and he, still smelling like sleep, finishes waking. Unlike summer’s bright, glaring illumination of dog hair and dust bunnies, the autumn sunlight casts an amber glow through the house that is diffused and inviting. Inviting also to our winged friends.

Our ambient lighting is killing birds. Doves, orioles, robins. Suddenly, the birds want our dining room door to serve as a portal to the opposite side of the house rather than fuss above or around the back of our home. Alas, the door serves as a portal of death as birds slam into the glass leaving a round smudge like a giant finger print before falling. Broken-necked birds lie on the deck below, the pose unnatural but otherwise the bodies strangely serene and intact. I jump at the quick, staccato thump of the late-morning death flights but Rem rushes excitedly to the door. “No dead birds this time,” he announces, somewhat disappointed, as he returns to play. Not all attempts result in death but enough do to make the three-year old’s shrill description of the lifeless creatures at the back door send a chill up my spine.