By Tom Driscoll
Cold wind shreds the upper branches of a thick-waisted oak. The woods, the more dark with wet black bark, whispers loudly, “No secrets here.”
Underbrush up and evaporated weeks ago. Leaves rain brown. Cinch up my hood, hunch a shoulder into the blow and head dead north on a trail of stooped-over grass where once, as heedless dogs approached, a possum woke up with a warning hiss and bared a currycomb of teeth filed down to puncturous steel points. Should have recognized then the harbinger, but hate to admit to naturalistic superstitions.
Then, at the bifurcation of purpose near the river where the first settlers must have peeled back redheaded reeds and peered down narrow native Indian trails, one doglegging you back to where you come from, the other a point vanishing forever far into their future, I heard the foreboding crack of an overhead limb.
Wind’s ablowin’ thorns about like ice. Frozen there at the exact center of What Happens Next thinking, “October,” in a protracted, breathless instant falls faster than light an oak limb still swelling with weather heavy in its million green sails. Boom. Far enough into the future by just this much, it missed me and the dogs with unintentionally beautiful claws that could rip the hide off a deer.
Well, heh heh heh, should have seen the sign. When I was little, in the early fall when the first cold winds rattled the windows, my Dad liked to drink a cup-or-two of green tea and then read the leaves for me. But augury didn’t save him when the roar of the last big wave sat him up straight in the middle of the night, then fell him like an elm.
Whistled-here the dogs and sent them ahead around the fallen limb to reconnoiter least resistance. Thinking back, the dialogue between wind and leaves, the possum trail, and pausing where past and future part ways just long enough to let the oak talk to me, the oracle had clearly spoken. The dogs, as if in response to a forecast for more thunder, high-tailed it up the hill toward Nothing Happens while I squirmed through knotty fingers and a snaggle of raspberry fiddle bound for Safely Home.
A few minutes later, somewhere between here-and-there, a whimpering one-handed clap shivered through the forest as the great oak sprawled across possum trail, sparing nothing where once its opaque early morning shadow fell.
Minnesota writer Tom Driscoll reports on politics, economic development and life in rural America at The Small of America. He can be reached at smallofamerica@aol.com.
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