How appropriate to his mood: a dead leaf spiraling down in final flight. The end of a season. The birds seem to know it, flitting from the trees to the feeders, and back again; never too far from this steady source of food. A feeding frenzy sometimes, he notes, with some amusement. The less hardy ones have already gone south, and thinking of this touches some migratory spirit in him, he thinks of taking wing, so to speak, but only briefly. That urge cooled weeks ago. He will be one of the hardy ones this year.

Funny how he looks at the winters now. Growing up in this country, he never looked at the cold season as being that difficult; but then, at that time, winter wasn't something to put up with. He even enjoyed the change of seasons for the most part. He liked the quietness of the snowy woods, appreciated the stark contrast of the white powder with the evergreen branches, the light dust blowing in the air, small animal tracks marking the smooth white carpet on the ground. The snow covered well-trodden paths, automobile tracks, old rusted machine parts, woodpiles, tree forts; it covered all signs of people, erased for whole days the human detritus, presented a fresh picture, a different landscape. Something about the quiet, snow-covered woods always suggested something primitive: essential, stark nature with a cold indifference to men. The only men he could see in his mind were fur-clad Indians or trappers (Grizzly Adams types).

As a kid, winter simply meant participating in the typical activities: sledding or tobogganing, skating, snowball battles, snow fort and tunnel building, football games. Long, tiring afternoons, and sometimes nights, tromping around in heavy boots, wrapped like an Eskimo. He had fond memories of coming into his house soaked to the skin from the snow, or sweating from the extra layers of clothing, ruddy cheeked and ready for hot chocolate. Leave everything wet drying by the furnace.

Thinking about things like that really made him feel his age. A day of forgetting himself in any activity was rare. Here he is staring at the trees and thinking about how he will spend the rest of the afternoon, and not feeling all that inspired about anything that comes to mind. His mind drifts as lazily as the leaves in the air around him, taken away by any breeze that comes along. His attempts to remain focused on anything are unsuccessful and, as another hour goes by, he becomes slightly frustrated with himself. He knows this frustration will build if he doesn't act on something. He will feel that it is another day down without accomplishing anything.

He starts to move, with some idea in mind, but then stops, unsure of something. He looks again at the trees and the bird activity, but, preoccupied with his thoughts, isn't really seeing it now. He moves again a few steps, then stops; laughs a little at the absurdity of it. Leaves continue to come down around him and one sticks to his shoulder. He brushes it off as another one brushes his nose. They keep coming like the thoughts cluttering his mind at the moment.