|
© Dipl.-Geogr. Martin Werner |
I
mpressions in autumn C oloured is the forest Yellow the fields Autumn has begun Grey fog in dawning Coloured leaves are falling A cool breeze is touching us J.Gaudenz v. Salis-Seewis | ||||||
|
A
utumn promenade
I like every season and if I had to choose which one I like best I'd rather be disturbed because every of them has its own special mood and beautiness. Every season, wether summer or winter, I like them all, I enjoy them in a very intensive way and therefore I am already longing for the next coming season. When winter ends and spring is coming up, I am completely euphoric and of course happy when the first flowers are opening in the garden. And later all is green outside, the flowers bloom, I am longing then for the warmth of the summer, esp. the mild summernights with the twinkle of the stars... I rejoice the long evenings outside we spend by summer feasts. And when the time has come for summer to say 'good-bye' I am already longing for the coming autumn. The days are getting shorter now and the time is come to stay at home at ease beside the fire. And inside we pass through other joyce. Earlier than before the daylight ends and the first frost at night I recognize, even at day the temperatures are low, it's foggy outside and cold. At morning usually the mist is in the pastures and the hoar-frost fits all the plants. The cultures, pastures, forests and gardens loose their intensive colour and splendour. The life-cycle draw to a close... Nature unaccepts the changes and makes a last tremendous effort turns all into a splendid mass of colours: the branches of trees, shrubs and vine tendrils are full of fruits, rather they aren't able to carry them. During the harvest the leaves fall, one after the other, and stronger winds blow them away. I am always happy then to go out with my family to make long promenades. We put on woolen sweaters and amble through the fields and the woods. Under our feet the leaves crunch, the soil is damp and between the trees the mist floats weightless. Now, after that the fields are harvested, the best time has come to observe the local wildlife. We keep in silence behind a hiding-place and watch the deer and take care not to disturb them. With the kids we collect natural things like nuts, acorns, chestnuts, rose-hips and all kinds of tasty mushrooms. And all the things we cannot eat, we will see what we can build. I watch the pine-cone and the cone of the pine-tree and already now I think over the use of them for some beauty presents at Christmas. The cold air let us freeze, we will keep the comforter closed. We freeze and therfore turn to go home now. Reaching home we put on our warm slippers and make a good cup of tea. We take out a collection of games and sit in ease beside the table. We talk and resume, everyone is happy. Even now, some recipes and ideas for handicraft in the advent season are suggested. There is enough time to talk about hopes and wishes in the Christmas time. In that manner the time is passing. And once a day, we look one morning out of the window and can't believe it: all outside is white of snow. All is turned into white, within one night! Winter has come within one night and we now prepare for happy times in the snow! Sulden March 1993 Sylvia Eberle I ndian summer W hen summer is past and the harvest has been garnered, when Nature lies down like an old, tired workhorse in the stable, when Indian Summer is dying away and early Fall hasn't set in yet - then it is the fifth season. It is a time of rest. Nature holds her breath; on other days it breathes imperceptibly with a gently heaving breast. Now all is over: the giving birth, the maturing, the growing, the spawning, the harvesting - now it is done. The leaves and the grasses and the shrubs are still here, but at the moment they are not fulfilling a function. Whether or not there is any higher purpose in Nature - at the moment the wheels are not turning. They are standing still. Gnats play in the black-golden light; in the light there really are black tones, deep old gold lies under the beech trees, plum-blue on top of the hills. Not a leaf is stirring, it is quite still. The colors are shining, the lake is a though painted, it is quite still. A boat is gliding down-stream; what has been stored up is being expended; it is a time of rest. This goes on for four, maybe eight, days. And then something happens. One morning you can smell autumn in the air. It isn't cold yet; it isn't windy; nothing has changed, really, and yet everything is different. It seems as if something in the air has snapped - something has happened. The die kept its ballance that long, it tottered... there... there... and now it has fallen onto the other side. Everything seems still as it was yesterday: leaves, trees, shrubs... but now everything is different. The light is bright; gossamer threads float through the air. Everything has given a jerk; the magic is gone the spell is broken; now it passes into clear autumn. How many will be granted you? This is one of them. The miracle lasted four days, maybe five, and you were wishing that it might never, never cease. It is the time of year when ageing gentlemen wax quite sentimental; but it isn't late love, it is something else. Call it optimistic intimation of death, a joyous recognition of the end. Indian summer, early autumn, and what lies in between. A very short time span in the year. It is the fifth and most beautiful season. Kurt Tucholski, 1960 |
|||||||