the soughing wind

Some leaves hang late, some fall
before the first frost--so goes
the tale of winter branches and old bones.

William Carlos Williams

I heard it for the first time this season the evening before last. Soughing. There is no other word to describe the sound. Our first autumn here I knew the word for it, though for the life of me I can't remember learning it.

There are tall pitch pines on the northern end of the yard behind the solar panels. For forty feet or so they are empty of branches, their trunks straight and true. At the crown they have an open, branching habit. You can see the crowns here, in the upper left corner of the picture, about 150 feet behind the house. The place where they grow is one of my favorite spots on our land - in three seasons the sun warms the pine needles on the ground, and they release a dry, fragrant, intoxicating perfume. In that fourth season - now - they are musical instruments played by wintry winds.

The wind does not have to be high to play the trees. The past few days have brought breezes of 15 mph, and that is enough. It is neither a wailing nor a whooshing sound, just the mere suggestion of a low whisper. There is no discernible sibilance, but more of a deep, throaty frequency that enters my ears just below my awareness.

The best place to listen is from the hot tub. The best time to hear is twilight. As I soak my creaky bones and watch the stars emerge in the deepening sky, I enter a peaceful state of release. My grip on grief is loosened, sweet mournful memories waft by. The sound is not a lament, certainly, but a reminder, a stirring of chambers of my heart. It moves me, for now to dolor, yet not desolation.

We lost Dad in late September, during a glorious Indian summer, too soon, too soon. Mom left us well after first frost, in a bitter part of a particularly bitter winter. This is the next winter. It's finally here.