Abominable gusts of autumn wind permeate the yawning surface of our street. The  driveway creates a colossal opening next to the forest. None of the trees of the forest dare to overhang the boulevard, making me feel all the more vulnerable in such an open space.

As I truck towards my backyard, the stubborn wind insists I take a detour. I lose my footing on the ledge of my driveway for a moment and wind up tumbling into a heap of leaves. Scratchy sprays brush against my legs. My mother didn’t have to do the scolding this time; the slashes from the bushes she planted serve as the perfect reminder: stay out of mother’s garden.

The backyard rests, vexed, as it is bombarded with falling foliage from every direction. The sky, littered with leaves and debris and angrier than ever, is still in a heated argument with Mother Nature.

The early autumn breeze disposes leaves in an unpredictable whirl, churning them in mid-air and coating them with the cool autumn mist that lies as a haze over the area. The mist spatters car windshields and sleek metal exteriors. Flurries make it to their respective destinations.

Is it possible every object whipped up by the lash of the wind has some sort of planned destination? Is the wind some sort of international mail carrier? 

As the turbulent wind eases into a zephyr, I pace along the pavement of our driveway.

I suddenly become attentive as my two cats eye each other, in a stalemate, on the end of my neighbor’s deck. My orange cat slants his eyes in a semi-violent yet defensive stance; he isn’t too fond of her existence. They know they are equal in strength when it comes to a brawl, so they remain with uncomfortable, sour expressions.

Just as our yard is lined with prickly, piney, papercutting plants, we do have a few amazing trees. One trunk in particular splits off into two branches, and then from there, one branches off into another two.

A mossy mammoth that serves as the monument of our backyard climbs so high it seemingly can brush the clouds. Distinct from the other trees, its trunk stands tall above our house, high enough to see our street from the backyard.

Towering twins in our front yard, our oldest trees, twist their arms into the spotlight.

The most ancient trees that reside on our lawn point their branches toward each other; the result is a play the trees rehearsed to entertain the whole neighborhood. Their last act about the eternal turmoil has proved to be, well, eternal.

The commotion caused by the wind enhances the swaying trunks. It is impossible not to spot our enormous trees, the antiques of our neighborhood. These beloved trees have been around for so long humans are the ones that live rent-free on their lands.

The leaves provide familiar crunches beneath my feet as I press on. I glance at our ruby red maple tree. Not as bright as in the warmer seasons, it has more of a velvet tone. The maple seems to extend straight down into the depths of the earth.

The skies become colder and the chills blow yet again, reassuring my decision to get out of the open air.

I part ways with the cold. With the squeak of a door, the world outside is now silent.