Autumn

The wind sprite laughed.  She scooped up dust, scraps of cloth from the open rag bin on the porch, and bits of straw from a pile near the barn.  She gathered her trinkets, lifting them high, only to scatter them as the farm children ran in delighted circles.  The sprite made her breeze dance to the rattle of the sycamore, to the happy squeals of the barefooted young.  A bit of cloth escaped, only to fetch up against a rusty iron bar that canted drunkenly from the earth just outside the open gate.

When the sprite paused to catch her breath, the cicadas buzzed, impatient at the break in the game.  Catching her second wind, the sprite invited her demon-friend, a small dust devil, to join in.  Back and forth, around and up, the detritus flew.  All the while, the scrap of cloth fluttered from its station on the old iron bar. 

At first, the crows complained about the disorder, the noise, and the mess.  They, after all, considered themselves purveyors of all silly games and chaos, both innocent and otherwise.  Soon, however, the corvid love of play overtopped their reticence, and five or six of the glossy birds took turns surfing between the arms of the sprite and the blunt horns of the friendly demon.

For a long time, no one noticed the clouds gathering on the hills to the east.  It was the crows, wary even in the throes of their sport, who first spied the interlopers.  With a flash of feather and a raucous chorus of warning, the aerial portion of the game collapsed.  As if certain of an impending downpour, the crows hurried west toward the shelter of a line of cypresses.  

The dust devil bade his friend the wind sprite good-bye.  He scudded off, swirling in the wake of the birds.  Storm on the horizon or not, there were still feathers to ruffle.

A bit sad then, the sprite waved her farewell.  Still, she had to admit that it was late in the summer.  These days she tired easily, and a nap seemed just the thing.  But before she lay down, she caressed the scrap of cloth, which through everything held fast to its spot on the rusty iron bar just outside the gate.  

The screen door banged open, and Mother called her brood for lunch and afternoon lessons.  Still excited from their game with the wind and the birds, the children chattered as they ran for the house.  Mother waited until the smallest one scampered over the threshold before latching the screen and closing the stout front door.

And safe in that quiet place outside of time, where the seasons go to wait their turn, the wind sprite dozed.  Meanwhile, daffodils, irises, and tulips settled in their beds, anticipating their deep winter slumber.  In the front yard, the first raindrops of autumn pattered on the dusty ground.

Copyright © 2020, Michael C. Glaviano.  All rights reserved.