Place 8: Something Else

Tuesday October 26, 2009 11:00 am

The first thing I notice coming into the cemetery today is that the bright orange maples near the entrance have lost all their leaves. The changes this week are more dramatic than in prior weeks. This week the majority of the leaves have changed and I wonder if the trees are already slightly past their prime. Still, the colors are incredibly beautiful. It takes a long time to reach the clearing because I stop to take so many pictures. Taking pictures is a clumsier process than usual because I'm wearing gloves. The air is noticeably colder this week but calm, no wind. This is a different kind of cold than the cold snap a few weeks ago. That one felt hasty, rash, bitter. Everyone knew it wouldn't last. This cold feels more measured and thoughtful; it's settling in to stay.

I reach my clearing and it glows orange and yellow, seeming to radiate warmth as well as light. Around the perimeter of the clearing the ground is covered with leaves and the foxtail grasses are dry and yellow like hay. The tree in the ravine with the purple seed pods has lost its lime-green leaves and stands out even more against the orange background.

Almost all of the trees have turned now, only a few still in green. The vine-smothered trees near the gate don't look so forbidding anymore; leaf-fall has exposed the dark caverns of understory like the insides of a half-built house. Now only bare vine skeletons engird the tree limbs and the trees' crowns are visible above them, finally set free.

The vines themselves have changed color too: the one encircling the oak is yellowy-orange and the one creeping up the maple is flaming orange-red. Who would’ve thought winter would make things seem gentler and less threatening? Winter has less hiding places, I suppose, less spots for fear and danger to lurk. I never thought of it that way before.

When I first got here today I saw my three turkeys again, in a different part of the clearing than before. This time they were near the viney trees, and they left unhurried but deliberately, the same as always. This is the third time I've seen them here, always three together. I don’t remember seeing turkeys around Pittsburgh growing up, but I've seen a lot of them over the past ten years or so. I was curious about the turkeys in Pittsburgh so I read into it. I found out that in 1900 only several thousand turkeys remained in Pennsylvania due to hunting and loss of forest habitat, but populations rebounded as forests regrew and limits were placed on hunting. Today hundreds of thousands live throughout Pennsylvania, in almost every county. (If you look closely in the center of the next picture you can see one from today.)

The colors in the ravine are spectacular. The hills behind are twilight purple, the sky is streaked with blue, the clouds lie in horizontal layers. Birds chirp in the background, calm little chirps, not frantic, and I hear crows, as always. Last week on my way out I saw a whole flock of crows, at least thirty. They stood in our path but flew away as we neared. I saw a blue jay again this week too. I don't remember seeing jays at first and I wonder if I see them now because of how they stand out against the leaves.

Looking down the side of the ravine, I find myself wishing I could capture it more somehow. I've taken pictures, written descriptions, recorded sounds, but it doesn't seem sufficient. Why this desire to have to have a record of everything? This is such a big part of why I write. My trips here have taught me so much about what I cannot keep or grasp. I can't even identify a fraction of the species here, in this one tiny spot inside of one tiny cemetery inside of one of millions of cities. I can't track changes in sky or leaves or birdcalls from minute to minute let alone week to week. But none of that is the goal anyway I suppose. The goal is something else.