October Breeze

60 seconds in the life of a leaf.

Mark Haines

November 20, 2011

 October Breeze

A late October breeze from out of the northwest reaches land on the northern coast. It slows as it meets the coastal mountains and is vectored up along the western slopes. The air expands and cools as it continues up to the ridgelines and then gathers speed as it descends the leeward side, down into the inland valley.

At the far side of the valley, in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, a five hundred year old oak tree stands near the western edge of a ranch property. The autumn breeze is slowed by the trip across the valley, and by the introduction of the gentle slopes of the golden brown hills, but as it reaches the oak, it has just enough force to dislodge a dying leaf from the topmost branch.

The leaf hesitantly begins its downward journey, the initial path an arbitration between gravitational pull and surface drag. It meets its first solid obstacle at the branch directly below, where it brushes the wing of a woodpecker tending to his harvest of worms, feeding on the acorns he has nested in the holes he bored in the upper tree trunk. The woodpecker is startled and instinctively leaps off the branch, soaring downward towards a small ravine near the base of the tree. In the hole the bird was inspecting, a worm is spared for another day and curls up to begin the process of laying a fresh batch of eggs in the heart of the acorn. The shadow of the approaching woodpecker sends a grasshopper bounding up and out of the ravine and into the tall grass on the upper edge. It continues on, frantically hopping for several yards before resting, antennae twitching, to receive any signal of further threat.

After sliding off the wing of the woodpecker, the leaf has now reached the third level of branches of the oak and filters through the leaves and twigs of several minor branches, its momentum decreasing,  adding precious seconds onto the journey towards its inevitable final destination at the base of the tree. One of the leaves flutters as it is passed, spreads its wings and reveals itself to be a butterfly. It ascends through the foliage, enters an updraft, and then heads east.

The woodpecker catches a glimpse of the butterfly from the bottom of the ravine and lifts off with a powerful thrust. The butterfly immediately senses the danger and tries in vain to descend into the safety of the underbrush. The bird intercepts the flight path and the butterfly is clamped for an instant in the bird’s beak. As the bird lands, it gulps down the insect in a series of rhythmic throat pulses.

The leaf has now approached the lowest, and thickest, branch of the oak. It makes contact, first with its pointed tip, and then rotating over and resting on its side, at a point about a third of the way out from the trunk. For a moment it appears that the leaf is spared the final drop to the ground, but after only a few seconds, the westerly breeze imposes its influence again, and the leaf is lifted gracefully out and away from the branch. Its slightly concave form creates enough lift to gain a few yards of altitude during the new route eastward towards the ranch house in the center of the property.

Inside the house a woman stands at a large picture window looking out over the valley. A man is behind her, glaring at her back and gesturing with his arms, his face a series of angry contortions. The woman’s face is flat and blank. Her eyes appear to be focused on the ridgeline of the coastal hills on the far side of the valley. Her arms are crossed tightly and one hand worries a string of wooden beads hanging around her neck.  Seeking a reaction, the man moves closer to her and bangs his fist on a table between them. He kicks at a suitcase standing near the table and then throws his arms into the air in a gesture of abdication. Storming out of the room and down a hall, he slams a door somewhere in the interior of the home.

Still at the window, the woman watches the leaf approach and glide in front of the pane, coming to rest, gently and finally, on a flagstone set in the red clay in front of the window.  The tenseness around her eyes dissipates, and her tongue slips out of her mouth, lightly pressing against her upper lip. She takes in a long, slow breath, then turns to look at the suitcase, now resting on its side under the table. Taking the bag, she looks down the hallway in the direction the man has gone.  After a brief moment, she turns again and walks to a door next to the window, opens it, and exits the house. As she crosses the patio towards the waiting car in the driveway, her foot crushes the leaf on the flagstone, the fragments spreading across the stone as she lifts her foot. She gets into the passenger seat and the car slowly drives off. As it reaches the end of the driveway and turns west, another breeze sweeps the flagstone clean of the leaf’s remnants, spreading them out to mix with the countless other leaves in the yard.

 

Reviews

[An owl on the moon]

I grew up in Yosemite Valley.. well, nearly! Your words carried me back across time and distance... such beautiful, bittersweet moments of letting go... leaves and lives... that haunting remembrance. So well done.