Autumn Walk When, on an autumn walk, by the riverbank, in the woods, in the grove, nature falls in love with itself, and dwells within us at the very start of the journey, then she makes an incision— almost invisible—beneath the abdomen overgrown with shrubs. She opens the heart and hollows it of all malice, of every suspicion. She fills the lungs with air, unwinds the long intestinal ribbon along the banks of the channel, and empties it of its primal, instinctive fears. Then she stitches it all back together along the folds of the soul, like a weaving spider spinning its web beneath the star of the first constellation that pierces the spread of azure sky. But nature never touches the legs— she merely strengthens their muscles. For, being hollowed out, lightened, and aired, I would lack substance, lack the weight to keep me bound to the earth. I might drift away, dissolving in the atmosphere. So, back at the cottage, with heavy, muscled legs, I regain my senses and surprise myself by inhabiting my body again, by filling out once more like a hatched egg in a birdhouse newly cleaned. There, in silence, I remake every feather, stretch my neck beyond the plumage. I take on the autumn song that spreads through my thoughts. I unfold my wings, wise for having learned to fly again. When, on an autumn walk, by the riverbank, in the woods, in the grove, something stirs within me that I cannot explain.
