The dark rises

"The noise from the rookery was louder, even though the daylight was beginning to die.  They could see the dark birds thronging over the treetops, more agitated than before, flapping and turning to and fro."
--Susan Cooper, The Dark is Rising

Today marks the midpoint of November.  The sky's been dark all day.  Rain fell all morning.  The rains tapered off a bit after noon -- although the skies dimmed even darker -- and so I decided to go for a nice walk. 

The world often looks strange in mid-November -- the beauties of autumn still linger to some extent, but winter hovers over us, warnng us of what lies ahead.  As I look down the street, I see trees still clothed gracefully in yellow leaves.  About my house, however, the limbs are bare, stretched out to the sky like the arms and fingers of skeletal witches, hurling down curses.  The clouds overhead are dark and threatening.  And above it all shriek the cries of the crows, millions of crows, crows flying singly and in formation, crows circling above me, landing on trees, and on telephone wires, and on the very ground ahead of me -- singly and in unison, daring me to draw closer.

"Fool!" they seem to shout. "You'll be well sorry you didn't stay warm and dry in your cozy little house before this stroll is over."  Crows lie and they exaggerate wildly, of course; nothing untoward occurred.  But the crows, and the skeletal trees, and the churning black clouds above certainly darkened my mood.

Mid-November is still autumn, still lovely in places.  Rows of trees along the ship canal, dividing my neighborhood from the university, still bear foliage with blended colors resembling those of a ripe peach, transitioning from yellow to pale red.  The air grows ever colder, but not yet bitterly so.  The southwest wind blew gently, although it strengthened as I walked, promising to blow ever worse weather up from the distant ocean.  Pumpkins still grin from porches, although closer inspection reveals their grins to have been decaying, day by day.

Nature still shows signs of life.  But death, I know, and the crows don't hesitate to remind me, lies just around the bend.  The days will be growing shorter for five more weeks, before the sun finally turns reluctantly about, and begins inching north again.  But our weather will continue growing colder for at least another month past the solstice.

Surely the crows themselves must dread the coming storms, the bitter cold?  Evidently not.  They caw maliciously, spitefully, hurling their jeers at me as I pass.  Earth herself, who last spring seemed so gracious, so loving, so willing to offer beauty and joy -- Earth herself now seems to have turned upon mankind, daring us to survive the worst she has to offer us in the coming months.

I don't believe all this silly anthropomorphism, of course.  I'm just witnessing the onset of another normal Seattle winter.  But my Norse and Anglo-Saxon ancestors tug at me.  They call  within my soul from the haunted forests and marshes of primeval Europe, warning me that nature chooses her favorites, plays with our lives. Earth is not always a benevolent Mother, they warn me; she often appears as a she-wolf, a merciless predator who  leaps for our throats. 

My walk over, I slip back into my house, chased by the mocking laughter of the crows.  Only two and a half months until Groundhog Day!