The Circle of Return

Now that the Summer Gardens have withered into duller greens, when the airy flights of dragonflies have come to earth, even the little stream seems more asleep. Each succeeding day leads further down the path of change. The air grows cooler and the darkness closes in. First the last blooms of flowers wilted, then the geese gathered on the wing. After that the summer people came no more. And now I walk alone along this little stretch, wondering if the summer heat, when the insects and birds buzzed and sang, was but an outward show. The same power of natural expression--that silences the birds, stills the insects in flight, and brings the flowers to and end--shall color the land as the sleep begins. And what shall be with the little fish that dart and hide under that banks at my approach? The ice of winter shall freeze the water along the edges, and seal up the murmuring sounds of the hidden brook. Then I'll remember the season of these many lives, rising and returning to invisible sources on the circle of return.