Vista 12

It rained all night, loud plopping drops, cascading off the roof of my house, down the gutters, into the streets. I knew that my spot would be flooded again, like it was during my last visit.

So now I squat on one of the cement steps, avoiding the soggy grass, which when dry I usually enjoy. Today the sun is so bright. I can hardly look at my notebook, the glare so strong. My eyes hurt, but maybe that’s because of more than just the light. And to top it all off, violent winds are blowing the empty branches like I’ve never seen. Sticks are flying through the air. Leaves are stirring from their fallen slumber in the ground. My notebook pages protest against my writing, flaying and billowing out. For the first time in a while, I am focused on the act of writing out in nature, as opposed to the content of my surroundings.

And I guess that’s appropriate, for this is my last official entry, and I’ve come full circle. As I sit here, trying to note the way the breeze blows so fiercely it’s as if it’s attempting to the air of whatever has recently come to pass, I’m instead physically battling that breeze, fighting – writer against nature. I’ll get these words out.

The wind is warm, unnaturally so for December, but I close my eyes and tilt my head toward the sun, letting the air sweep my hair out of my face. Distant chimes on porches chime, and I’m amazed that I can hear them from here.

The trees forfeit their last leaves to the gusts, and tiny shriveled leaves disappear into the sky, never to reunite with their branches again. That’s what autumn windstorms are for, I think, to rid the trees of their leaves. This one, so late in the season, seems like a final sweep, a last check before winter. What are we leaving behind?

Our first semester is over, and today it truly seems so. I think back to this spot when I first arrived: the bees that hovered over the grass, the tall flowers in the garden, the vines and leaves nestled up against the trees in the woods. I wonder what I would write about that season now, after all I’ve learned, if I to visit it as it was then.

Maybe I’ll come back to the spot again throughout the year. But this moment feels like an ending. The wind tells me so.