Trees are afire along the Katy trail.

 

 

 

 

 

 

This happens each year. The first frost occurs — it was 29 degrees Fahrenheit (1.67 degrees Celsius) one morning last week. That daybreak the bugs ran shivering for cover, and the potted plants drooped unsmiling waiting for the morning. Those plants knew they’d soon be moved to the garage to wait out the months of cold.

This morning, in the bright first rays of day, the tops of the trees exploded in torches of shimmering color.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Even on the ground, I could hear the talking up there in the branches.

The Saps were leaving.

Sap 1: “I’m out of here.” Sap 2: “Why?” Sap 1: “Don’t be such a sap, the temperature has gone south; if we stick around, we’ll be frozen into horehound cough drops.” Sap 2: “Oh, right, I’m running kinda’ slow this morning.” Sap 1: “Well, you’d better get flowing — these leaves are headin’ for the ground and they’ll take you with ‘em if you don’t start snapping.” Sap 2: “Where are you going?” Sap1: “Me and the family have a real nice place just down there, under the roots of the tree – we’re snowbirds when it comes to cold weather. You ought to come along. A change of scene will do you good.” Sap 2: “Thanks, I think I will.” Sap 1: “Well, start headin’ over there to the main trunk. It will be congested with all the traffic on the way down. We’ll catch up. I’ve got to help the Missus with the packing. You know what they say: ‘It’s the early sap that catches the winter nap.’”

With the Saps leaving, the grounds are already covered with dropped and drying leaves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

While overhead, the bright foliage still clinging to the branches has turned bright reds, yellows and oranges with the exercise and puffing of one last fling in the sun.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s not just the leaves, the seed pods are on their way off too. They hang dry and shriveled. Soon, a gust of wind will break them free, and they will fly and scatter their seeds to wait and sprout with the April rains.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Until then, we walk down the tunnel of the Katy,

 

 

 

 

 

 

Past the bare silent sentinels of approaching cold,

 

 

 

 

 

 

The last red roses guarding the gates of winter,

 

 

 

 

 

 

Climb the rough-hewn steps to the soon cave,

 

 

 

 

 

 

Past Francis brooding in thought over his fallen flock,

 

 

 

 

 

 

And Armor, the Armadillo, heading to hibernate in his dug den beneath the root home of the vacationing Saps.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pull out the warm clothes and put an extra blanket on the bed.

The leaves they are a changin’ and the snows will soon be here to whiten our days.

Grandpa Jim