Fresh into the infant autumn, the oaks, early in their preparation for winter, have begun to drop their leaves. They started their preparation several weeks ago when August issued its orders: “All acorns to the ground.” Today, nature’s morning recarpeting reminds me of the seasonality of life—a clarion sign of what awaits me.
A greater number of leaves will fall as the evenings make a play for power and grab the light. Daylight will subside; darkness will exaggerate the moon. The contest is a prelude to honking geese swiftly making their way south. They will travel in great numbers as November approaches. Still, if history repeats itself, a solitary early bird will honk his way past my bedroom window at the crack of dawn. I will watch him through the naked branches of an oak framing his silhouette.
Each fall weekend I venture out alongside the edges of my oak branches with a noisy lawnmower, leveling the blades of grass to an even plane. Afterward, the greens announce their teamwork, every blade erect as though dressed in an emerald uniform properly starched.
Though I wish each culm would grow equally in height, nature reminds me that each will mature separately above the soil it’s given. The mulching of fall’s contribution offers no equal opportunity, only a home for each seedling’s similar effort. My mower comes along and promises the appearance of equality for each, but it is only an illusion.
I contrast my lawn with today’s online viewing of the wild meadows of Yosemite. The grass, though brown, looks more beautiful than my lawn. Its stalks of random heights wave in the breeze. Rain will come soon, and the Yosemite fields will turn green. Streams will quicken. Snow will caulk the cracks and corners of the granite cliffs—unmovable no matter what the season.
Each autumn of my life, nature’s pattern has repeated itself with certainty. I know nature will be faithful to its appointed destiny this year, even though I worry my neglect, or my intrusions, may harm my oaks. I estimate them to be at least a century old. I fear I will unknowingly overwater the nearby lawn or give a blind eye to the holes of a pesky woodpecker. Fortunately, the oaks are robust and craftier than I am, thriving in a way my bones cannot compete.
Last year’s pelting of acorns left dozens of seedlings. I am surprised how many have survived the spring and summer in my front yard. It seems the oaks’ sole job each season is to dress the fertile loam beneath its branches with baby oaks. Scores of tiny, deeply rooted twigs attest to the mother trees’ success.
However, the world is harsh. Death hovers. Few, if any, of these skinny twigs will find their way to arboreal adolescence. In spite of the opportunities afforded them by one hundred seasons, only three oaks stand in my yard, the mothers themselves. Occasionally, their maternal joints will creak in a strong wind, but I never hear them mourning over their solitude. I only see obedience to their calling—more acorns in each season.
All around me, the world turns in mathematical balance, prompting a personal reflection on the seasons of my life. I’m sure I have entered a new season because I have budding questions: Have I properly pruned the world around me? Did I graft for mere appearance or for a more robust stalk? Yes, I gratefully appreciate the grand mission of the speeding goose, but did I prepare for my own winters properly? Could I have saved more seedlings and fostered more nests?
My own acorn offspring have sprouted into tall and sprightly oaks. Did I prepare them for life’s boring beetles?
My mind’s priorities are called up for review. I see the past in different colors. I perceive time differently. The future seems shorter. I frequently wonder what will grow under my branches when they no longer flower.
My thoughts are no cause for alarm. They are as mundane as autumn’s dirt. Many more and wiser men than I have pondered greater, deeper, and broader into nature and our human existence. In fact, some have contemplated too long and missed the obvious: Oaks exist to make new oaks, to feed the squirrels, to nest the birds, to shade the weary, to supply the carpenter, and, perhaps most important, to testify to the poetic order of life.
Yes, there is order, a universal message that answers my persistent questions. “Stand tall like me,” shouts the oak. “Nurture seedlings with your branches. Shelter the homeless owl. Build with my wood. Grow a strong trunk. Support branches that point to the sky. Look up like me. Be proud and shout your silent messages of strength and hope and reason.”
Now night has fallen. The wind has picked up. I hear the mother oaks creaking again. Their remaining leaves canter and parade toward earth for no audience, save me with my meditations of the season’s rhythmic lessons of obedience.

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