The acorns are raining down on metal docks and making a ricochet sound across the bay. I look up and am sure someone must be there throwing them with such force, but there is no one in the trees. They crunch under our boots with a satisfying sound that you imagine your foot is the pestle to the earth’s mortar.

The million shades of yellow ochre create a perfect backdrop for black vertical tree trunks. The woods are wet from rain and early snow, the soybean field bows under the first flurries and the sumac wear a white veil. It is a time of transition and we all adapt.

The deer that we knew are now strangers in different color coats. The mouse begs to come in. The jet-black loons have left their gray-feathered children behind. Slow moths circle our porch light and the shoreline is boatless. It is so quiet. No motors, no people.

Colorful beach towels in the linen closet and the swim rafts have lost their shape. We look for socks that have been pushed to the back of the drawer and tug on boots that feel tight on summer feet. And off we go again down an old yet new path.

Painting by Fairfield Porter “Autumn Morning”