Dance of the Fairies of the Fall
Originally published in The Greeley Tribune, November 23, 2024.
Stacy McCloud’s daughter’s favorite hunting blind on their Kentucky property. Photo / S McCloud.
I watched her put on her new hot pink Carhartt beanie and zip up her camo Sitka hunting jacket.
Her shoulder-length golden locks reflected what was left of the afternoon sun as it danced through the kitchen window. Its long warm tendrils stretched with the last of its strength to touch the adolescent that stood before me. Her magnetic personality, moxie, and laugh were hard not to want to be near. She gave those near her strength and made them feel confident in her presence. I could not blame the sun’s desire to extend its time with her.
She had just gotten off the school bus, and her new favorite pastime had turned into sitting in one of the elevated blinds on the property with her new Elite bow and her Maven range finder, watching the wildlife as she waited for her deer. The deer she sought, her deer wasn’t a specific beast. She would shoot any as long as it was mature. She wasn’t hunting for a young spike or a juvenile; she wasn’t even hunting for a young female healthy enough to reproduce. Her deer was an old buck or doe. She watched from her cameras and her elevated vantage point. She watched many young spikes, fawns, and young does cross her line of fire.
She was hoping to fill the freezer with her harvest, but in the meantime, she would enjoy watching the squirrels scurry to collect food before winter. She was content listening to the birds, hearing the faint orchestra of the breeze as it danced through the trees, enticing leaves to follow it as it traveled through the valley. She watched the leaves effortlessly pirouetting and flipping as they fell onto the backs of the other fallen dancers. They were like little falling fairies with gossamer wings twisting and tangling as they cascaded to the ground.
Her life here was new and everything around her was unfamiliar. Excitedly, she had recently learned that the region of her new home hosted the biggest white-tail deer in the state.
Looking through her small window in the wooden blind 10 feet above the ground, she could see miles of the rolling hills of green pastures and dense colorful trees. Hues of gold and red, some still green, some barren from the late fall, and others seemingly exploding with vibrant wildfires, the ombres of reds to oranges were so intense she expected them to burst into flames at any minute.
She watched the leaves
effortlessly pirouetting
and flipping as they fell
onto the backs of
the other fallen dancers.
As she looked out the other small window slit, she saw more of the same. The green grass beneath her blind was covered in the carcasses of the fallen dancers. Beautiful freshly fallen leaves of amber, gold, greens, reds, and yellows. They continued to fall from above, dancing to the ground.
The only season we had to entwine our old lives with our new ones was the summer. Now in the heart of the fall, she was one thousand two hundred and forty-one miles from the only home she had ever known.
In the summer, the leaves of the tall oaks grew so thick with life that the perimeter she was now observing could not be seen through the thicket. Perched up high in the cool, crisp fall breeze, she could almost hear the trees sigh as they released hold of the little dancers and freed themselves for their winter slumber.
With the colorful canopy nearly bare, she had views for miles. Today, she could see landscapes she hadn’t seen here yet. She saw homes and barns that she didn’t know were there. Today, what she thought she knew about her home was new again.
Her ears perked at the sound of running water she hadn’t noticed before. Reaching for her binoculars and putting them to her eyes, she gazed upon the source of the bubbling water. She found a stream that must have dried up during the summer, the gurgling the water made was musical as it cascaded over the moss-covered stones. It flowed loudly and quickly from the fall rains from the last couple of days. She was astounded that she hadn’t noticed it before. The creek was at least 7 feet wide and presently refused to be ignored. It spurted loudly, seemingly in defiance of being ignored for so long. She thought it incredible that she’d never noticed it before.
Directly beneath her, she heard the rustling of a squirrel foraging for the last of the season’s acorns as it finished its winter stockpiling. It chirped with greedy happiness as she imagined its cheeks filled with treasure as it scurried away carrying more than it could hold like a greedy little pirate, disappearing up a tree with its booty.
Now in the heart of the fall,
she was one thousand two hundred
and forty-one miles from
the only home she had ever known.
As the temperature dropped, she zipped her jacket up around her neck. The fall chill was crisp despite the 50 degrees the temperature her phone showed. She smelled the clean air and drew deep breaths as she closed her eyes and listened to the last of the summer birds chirping to each other from walnut trees to other remaining birds perched in the tall oaks.
She stayed out far beyond the darkness. I watched as the veil of the night encompassed the valley. I watched, knowing that her hunting had ended. The sun was engulfed by the horizon, leaving only its remnants in traces of golds, reds, ambers, and yellows. I watched as the sun ended as the leaves did. As the season quietly and gracefully ended with the last leaves clinging to trees the sun humbly took its leave of absence behind the horizon.
A grand finale of sorts, the fall brought to an end to summer’s lush green and colorful wildflowers she plucked in the warm months. Seasons are God’s reminder that all things end AND begin again. A symbiotic ecosystem that predates the passing of time on watches or sundials. As we mourn the beauty the fall brings and takes, at its conclusion, we are reminded of the promise of spring. The renewal of life is as quick and bitter as the end is, the beginning is beautiful. The pain of lost pasts will eventually transform into beautiful memories and a new life. When a chapter closes, another beautiful one is waiting to be discovered.
May we all learn to embrace change as gracefully as the little dancers who held so dearly to what they knew and let go of the change.
“Change in all things is sweet.” — Aristotle.
My children made a choice to move across the country with us, and it showed their willingness to bend with diversity and challenge the unknown. They showed courage because it takes courage to decisively make a change. Every day I watch them grow and bloom into the fabulous creatures they are becoming. In their eyes, I see the reflection of excitement and adventure as everything is new to them.
I look forward to watching the seasons of life fall from the trees and renew themselves in the spring.
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