An Autumnal Sketch
It was like a thunderstorm,
It was like St. John’s night...
Then it was quietly asleep and forlorn,
And a star fell, shedding glimmering light
Pavlo Tychyna, “Sunlit Clarinets”
Rustling, never-ending, tragically dry and indifferent, with poplars sadly shedding their leaves and bidding farewell to their summer luxury. Other trees do this silently, but not poplars. Even if there is not the slightest breeze, they keep whispering something sad and hopeless. And then a gust of wind comes flying, not playful but mercilessly severe, pouncing on every tree, shaking it from top to bottom, lest a single rebellious leaf remain, then flies on; there is much work to do at this time of the year. And the trees swing branches long afterward, shaking off the last leaves like drops over a waterfall. And everything around becomes more transparent, refined, intangible, a shadow of a shadow.
Some trees attempt to hold their leaves longer, despite the cold, autumnal rain, and northern winds. Dark green oaks just stand there, heedless of the weather. They are in no hurry to put on the sun-bright colors of the fall. Actually, not only the sturdy hard-leafed oaks, but even the fragile graceful birches remain green, almost the way they are at the beginning of summer. They have their own secret of enduring youth. In this year’s suffocating summer heat (which the trees endure as torturously as people, especially in the urban areas), the birches lost almost all leaves and then turned green again in early September, as though it were April, so that now their green crowns are in daring contrast with cold winds and rains. For the time being.
Other trees, among them rowans, followed in the birches’ footsteps. Still others faced the fall with an even bolder challenge. Now that most plants are losing their foliage, cherry trees are in blossom here and there in Obolon (as I am write I have on my desk a cherry twig with delicate white flowers). What is it? The result of an unusually hot summer or some mysterious sign given us by omniscient Mother Nature? Who knows? At worst, the sign is very graceful. Cherry trees in Obolon? Yes, what’s left of all those luxuriant cherry orchards surrounding peasant homes for the past thousand years, before the scenic place became an urban housing project.
The beaches on the great River Dnipro and scenic suburban lakes, the local residents’ favorite places of rest, are empty, as are the countless groves and little and big river islands. Gone are the picnickers and vacationers, leaving behind tons of garbage as ugly spots on the immaculate surface of nature. They will be there until Doomsday, as the municipal authorities never bother about such trifles and the natural self-purification mechanisms are powerless confronted by synthetic waste. The next spring will see yet another onslaught of “nature-lovers.” In the morning each will painstakingly look for a clean spot (we humans are so tidy) and leave it in the evening as another stinking garbage heap. And the same is true of picnickers arriving in their cars. I recall an old mountain-climbing coach who often said, “After your visit the mountains are bound to get a little better than before. You choose an especially scenic spot and it means that you must take special care of it.” Young people today must have never heard anything like that from anyone.
The fall is a time of sorrow. One is loath to think of all those long months of cold rain, slush, and cold ahead (I am one of those with a firm aversion for cold). But the worst thing is the darkness lasting the better part of every 24 hours: dark windows during the day, the sun guessed at rather than seen for weeks on end. The only consolation is being sure that all this will pass, that spring will surely come, a true holiday for every living being, age, health, education, social status notwithstanding. After all, nature is the perfect model of democracy.
Trees boldly wearing spring colors in the fall, the way an aging beauty wears makeup, before falling to sleep for the winter months, rustle in the wind. The water in the Dnipro estuaries and bays has darkened; what only recently was rich emerald grass is now hay asking to be mowed. One can still hear a bird chirp now and then, catching a cold deceitful sunbeam. It is quiet and sorrowfully beautiful. Somewhere on the other end of our small world the sun is shining bright and hot, deathly missiles, artillery shells, and bombs howl like hungry wolves, people die; hatred, despair, fear, hunger, and suffering reign. Can all this horror have a normal finale? What kind of a monster is the human being?
