Contributed by Darroll Hargraves
The middle of September, I stand before a large stage crowded with many dancers.
The birches are turning to their golden time of the year. The dark green leaves of summer are splashed with gold.
Before me, the many birches are on stage to respond to the 20 mile per hour wind and subsequent turbulence.
Every birch dances individually their own dance. Some swaying, some bowing, some fluttering violently, but each to their own.
I know that to the end of September the leaves will continue on and reach a deep golden and another wind will bring the birches to a finality of frenzied dance that will strip the leaves from their branches.
The branches will lose their leaves and lie dormant through the coming dark and cold winter.
They will await the next stage of their life when the sun returns and the cycle of life comes again with bright green leaves that will move toward the golden that comes and the dances resume.
Darroll Hargraves lives and writes in Wasilla, Alaska
Dancing Birches
Contributed by Darroll Hargraves
The middle of September, I stand before a large stage crowded with many dancers.
The birches are turning to their golden time of the year. The dark green leaves of summer are splashed with gold.
Before me, the many birches are on stage to respond to the 20 mile per hour wind and subsequent turbulence.
Every birch dances individually their own dance. Some swaying, some bowing, some fluttering violently, but each to their own.
I know that to the end of September the leaves will continue on and reach a deep golden and another wind will bring the birches to a finality of frenzied dance that will strip the leaves from their branches.
The branches will lose their leaves and lie dormant through the coming dark and cold winter.
They will await the next stage of their life when the sun returns and the cycle of life comes again with bright green leaves that will move toward the golden that comes and the dances resume.
Darroll Hargraves lives and writes in Wasilla, Alaska