The morning begins with a quiet duel between night and day. To the east, the sun rises—a molten bloom of gold unfurling across the sky—while to the west, the moon lingers, luminous and steadfast, reluctant to let go. For a fleeting moment, they face one another like old friends exchanging a final word. The sun seems to say, “I’ll take it from here,” and with a graceful nod, the moon begins its slow descent, folding itself into the horizon.
Along the muddy farm track, the world is already stirring. A group of fishermen gather by the small pond, their voices drifting softly across the water like mist. The pond, calm and glassy, mirrors both dawn and daybreak—a meeting place for light, reflection, and human ritual.
Further along, the farmer is already deep in his work. The low, rhythmic growl of his tractor rumbles along the lane, sending a vibration through the stillness. Carys halts beside me, ears sharp and tail poised, staring at the approaching machine as though confronting some mechanical beast. Her courage flares for a moment, then softens; as the tractor turns off into the field, she relaxes back into her easy trot, her paws tapping gently against the mud.
The lane has turned almost black now—its golden carpet of leaves transformed into a dark, glistening layer of sludge. Each step releases the scent of decay, which dances with wood smoke from the nearby farm. It’s an aroma both sweet and sombre—the true fragrance of November.
We pass beneath the great hazel tree that, not long ago, was heavy with green, unripe nuts. I’d meant to return later in the season to gather a pocketful of the ripened shells, but the squirrels were swifter. They’ve stripped the branches bare, leaving only a memory of plenty. I smile at their greed—or perhaps, their good sense, and take comfort in knowing that they will be fed through winter. And in my garden, a young hazel grows, born of this very tree. It will be years before it bears fruit, but I find joy in tending it—in knowing that a small piece of this morning’s world will one day flourish under my care.
The tall poplars now stand almost naked against the pale sky. Only a few golden leaves cling stubbornly to the lowest branches, trembling in the breeze like fading notes of a song. There’s a melancholy grace in their surrender—a kind of dignity in letting go. Soon the poplars will sleep, and when spring returns, they will rise again in full chorus, their branches reclaiming the sky.
As we turn for home, the sun now firmly holds the heavens, but the moon has not yet slipped entirely from view. Their meeting lingers in my thoughts—that quiet moment of passing between two lights, neither in haste, neither in dominance, each yielding to the other with silent respect.
Perhaps that is what the turning seasons teach us—that everything has its time to rise and its time to fade. That strength lies not in resistance, but in grace. As the trees surrender their leaves and the land folds itself into rest, I feel my own heart slow to match its rhythm.
And so the cycle continues—darkness yielding to light, leaf yielding to soil, and life quietly folding into itself, only to begin anew. There is beauty in the yielding, and a peace in the letting go.