In late October, the grass is as green as late spring--it bursts into growth and hungrily drinks in water and food preparing for a long, cold sleep. On top of the grass, leaves blanket the ground. They've departed from their tree that they fed for months. They've done their job, and now they die in the most beautiful display of artful ballet, dancing downward from their perch and landing on the ground with grace, exploding with color. They leave behind space as now the neighboring houses and yards become visible once again. The barrenness of November and the colder, silver air starts to take over. The noisy cat birds are gone. Now, the quiet, patient, longsuffering chickadees, mourning doves and cardinals remain, but without much song. They, too, are busy like the grass, preparing for the approaching cold, barrenness of winter. Winter will come, but what will it be this year? It will be whatever it wants to be, without consultation with others. It may grace the earth with beautiful white snow, or it may spit cold rain and turn everything dreary and gray. It may be silent and cool. No announcement, no signals. Just perfectly reliable in whatever the forces that combine to make it will do. But for now, the air is still pungent with the leaves that are still falling, silently. Until they return again in April!