Autumn Journal: Feast

This is not a good year for acorns.

No apologies. No explanations. This year, the valley’s oaks hold only the brittle remains of bright leaves. The trees remember what we often forget: feast and famine dance together. Some years, life pours out in torrents. Other times, it gathers itself in silence.

Last autumn, a feast poured from every oak.

Acorns fell so thick they rolled underfoot like marbles, threatening to twist weakened ankles. Not yet in my wheelchair, I felt them shift beneath each step, crunching underfoot and filling the air with their nutty scent. I watched squirrels waddle rather than leap, their bellies dragging through the leaves. Deer lingered in groups of five, seven, nine—no need to roam when food lay everywhere. Blue jays called from dawn to dusk, their harsh voices bickering even over an endless banquet.

Then the turkeys came.

One morning, I woke to find my deck transformed. Through the bedroom glass—just three feet from where I lay my head—bronze bodies caught the first light, feathers shifting from copper to emerald to gold. Six wild birds, each three feet tall, sunned themselves on my patio furniture as if they had always belonged there. Their bald heads—mottled blue and red like bruised fruit—bobbed with each careful step, moving from picnic table to Adirondack chair to iron railing, then down onto the lawn.

For weeks, they ruled this corner of the valley, feasting on acorns and whatever prey remained. From my window, I studied their hunt: left foot rakes, right foot rakes, step back, peck. The same ancient rhythm repeated until leaves exploded in small brown geysers, revealing the treasures beneath. Each bird worked its patch of earth, never rushing, never resting.

These were not the tame birds of children’s books. They sprinted faster than deer when startled. Their wings—each feather iridescent as oil on water—could launch their large bodies into uncanny flight at highway speeds. Sharp spurs jutted from powerful legs. Hooked beaks tore through tough husks. They crossed our lawn without acknowledgment, roosted in the mountain laurel outside my window, and peered at us through the glass with dinosaur eyes.

It’s those eyes that hold their real secret.

With vision three times sharper than ours and extending into the ultraviolet spectrum, they could spot a beetle crawling across bark from fifty feet away. With nearly 360° peripheral sight, they tracked every shadow, every movement in every direction—ready to flee or fight in a heartbeat. The blink of a stalking coyote primed them for battle. A hawk’s distant silhouette sent them diving into the understory. By day, nothing could touch them.

But as the sun lowered and shadows pooled beneath the oaks, the birds grew quiet. Those extraordinary eyes—so piercing in sunlight—are night-blind. By the time the first stars appeared, they could no longer see. No strength or speed matters when darkness steals your sight.

So they climb.

One by one, these massive, ground-dwelling birds force themselves upward, struggling against their own weight to reach the highest branches that can hold them. All night, they sway on wisps of wood, high above the earth, blind and vulnerable, accepting whatever the darkness brings. This is just how night is.

Morning returns their power, and they return again to earth. When the last acorn is found and eaten, when the feast finally ends, they leave. No ceremony. No backward glance. The valley offered abundance, then it withdrew. They received both with equal grace.

The oak doesn’t mourn its empty branches or celebrate its heavy ones. The turkey doesn’t rage against darkness or mourn the daylight. They inhabit each moment fully—feast or famine, sight or blindness, power or vulnerability.

We alone try to hold summer, to freeze the moment before goodbye. We fear, resist, deny, and mourn. Ignorant, we argue with the tide, as if we weren’t made of the same stuff and moved by the same currents flowing through all living things. —This is the heart of our suffering.

Stop.

Let life flow through you like a river of light.

In empty branches, see patience. In darkness, see humility. In plenty, see gratitude. In scarcity, see trust. In the unity holds us all—turkeys swaying blind in high branches, oaks standing empty against gray sky, this body watching from a window, knowing its night is approaching—see peace.

Accept the feast when it comes. Accept the famine when it follows.

Both will come. Both will pass.

Let go.