Alamanc October 2026
Alamanc October 2026
By Ashley Walshe
In October, life and death walk hand in hand, giggling.
Can you hear them through the crisp breeze? The eddies of fallen leaves? Press your ear to pine bark and hear the sap slow.
Acorns drop to the earth like runes tossed upon a casting cloth. Gray squirrels scramble to secure an unknown future. The crows blurt their dismal premonitions.
Frost! Silence! Death! Rot!
Yes, it’s all coming. And yet, the squirrels build their caches; the crickets are still singing; earthworms and fungi hum of alchemy and fertile soil.
All of life weaves itself into the endless fabric of existence — even through death.
Become food. Become earth. Become eternal.
And on this day, when the sky is blue and sunlight transforms colors to exalted states, become acutely aware of this fleeting moment.
Cascades of crimson maple leaves. Kaleidoscopes of monarchs. Murmurations of starlings. Here and gone — at least from sight — in a brisk autumnal flash.
At once, a crow cracks a nut with its sleek, sharp beak. Woodpecker tucks them into dead, damp trees. A squirrel buries a soon-to-be-forgotten reserve where, weeks from now, an acorn will sprout a taproot.
The orb weavers spin their final webs, wrapping their eggs in tear-shaped sacs of silk.
Can you hear the laughter now?
Life! Death! the crows chant. Rebirth!
The light is fading; the air smells of musk and mischief; the tapestry continues to surprise and delight.
The maple tree in front of the doorstep burned like a gigantic red torch. The oaks along the roadway glowed yellow and bronze. The fields stretched like a carpet of jewels, emerald and topaz and garnet. Everywhere she walked the color shouted and sang around her.
— Elizabeth George Speare, The Witch of Blackbird Pond
Oak + Squirrel Forever
Nothing like the gentle thuds of acorns raining down upon the quietly turning earth.
Did you know that a single gray squirrel will scatter-hoard up to 10,000 of them over the course of one season? And fail to unearth roughly three-quarters?
Oak knows.
That’s a lot of potential — entire forests — safely cradled by the wet, dark soil.
The squirrels eat their fill. The oak trees continue their wild giving. The seeds of life sleep underground, patiently awaiting the return of spring. OH
The Autumn Cauldron
(with apologies to Shakespeare)
Hoot of owl and hush of frog, caw of crow and whiff of dog . . .
The autumn cauldron bubbles.
Can you smell it? The richness of wet earth and fallen leaves; the punch of stink bug and walnut husk; the heavy musk of slow decay?
Add to that the woody depth of warming spices: cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamom and clove.
Now, throw in some texture.
The howl of coyote and wind. The crackle of fire. Dried corn stalks, wine-colored berries, pine sap, turtle shell and bone.
Sweeten with pumpkin and apple. Brighten with blue skies and luminous foliage. Deepen with red wigglers, spoiled fruit and mushroom spores.
Double, double, watch it bubble.
