The branches of deciduous trees have so many different patterns to display when they no longer wear their foliage wraps. Lying on the forest floor on a warm November day allows me to see all that lies between me and the sky after the leaves have fallen or blown away.

The autumn sun reflects off of smooth, young bark in a way I see only at moments such as these. The conifers stand resolute, and remind me that green always returns. Ahh! I pause and drink in blue sky, billowy clouds, fresh air and sunshine that still warms the ground beneath the trees.

Soon these will change too, replaced with autumn’s cold rains, sleet, and even snow, next up in nature’s unending march through the seasons. I try to get up to my viewing spot twice each fall, first when the maples glow with vivid orange and red, then again when all of the leaves have vanished. Magic moments.

Last summer, I had the good fortune to rise early one morning after a night of rain and see a flock of 10 turkeys just outside my bedroom window. Sitting on a large boulder drying themselves in the sun, they spread their wings in mock flight as the steam rose from their feathered forms. The feeling of seeing something that others might never enjoy made me want to share it even more. So I woke my husband who, at that early hour, resisted the moment. One person’s magic.

Not all magic moments happen in sunlight. On a cool, gray Labor Day morning, my grandson Liam and I headed across the highway to open up the chicken coop. Liam commented, with the wide-eyed ingenuousness of an 8-year old, “Look Nana, the clouds look like they’re stitched to the top of the mountain. It’s Grandma Nature’s quilt!” he added, tongue-in-cheek. Liam had captured the picture in words perfectly. The mountain we and everyone in this community lives or drives within sight of, looked like a well-loved appliquéd quilt. Shared magic.

One day in late winter, as I tramped on snowshoes along the edge of our woods, I found pockets of smooth, silky ice that transformed large hollows at the base of several large pasture pines into pools of solid silver. I continued to go out each day to watch as they shrank slowly by sublimi, a process that causes solid ice to change to a gas without melting. The ice pools’ transient nature made me appreciate them even more. I must admit, I couldn’t pass up the satisfying crunch of punching through one of them, only to discover any ice or water below had disappeared. I‘ve looked for those icy creations in winters since, but haven’t yet seen the same combination of events. Magic moments don’t always repeat.

One spring we watched every day for a pair of foxes who frequently hunted in our field. Early in April, a trio of fox kits began appearing in the field, frolicking under the watchful eyes of whichever parent babysat while the other hunted for food. One gray afternoon, I looked outside our backyard windows to see those three small red fox kits sitting in a drainage ditch. Apparently told to stay there by their mother, they waited for her return.

As time went on, they began to tumble and roll over and under each other. As they played, I leaned out our window and took digital pictures. Eventually, two of the kits wandered off to explore the rest of the backyard. One remained alone, looking forlorn and worried. It finally settled down and took a nap, but when it awoke, it continued to watch the woods for its mother.

Time dragged on and I began to make plans to call the Fish and Game conservation officer regarding abandoned fox kits. Just as the sun began to go down, Mother Fox appeared at the edge of the woods and the dutiful kit darted out of the ditch to reunite joyfully with its mother. Meanwhile, the wandering pair returned, looking guilty. The look she gave them spoke volumes. Then, forgiveness dispensed with a poke of her wet muzzle, off they went, a family once more. Another magic moment for my collection.

By Helen Downing, Master Gardener

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