秋天

　　11月8日

　　一年这个季节森林和田野寂静得出奇，甚至连蟋蟀的蛐蛐声也听不到。灌木栎树密密麻麻缺少水分的叶子纹丝不动。你自己的气息都可以吹动那叶子，而天空却没有一丝风去吹动它们。树木露出等待冬天的神情。秋叶失去了色泽，真的枯萎了，没有生命了。森林披上了深色的外衣。夏天过去了，收获也结束了。山核桃、白桦、栗树和枫树一样全落了叶。茁壮长出的嫩芽，曾想弥补樵夫砍树造成的损失，终因冬天快来而骤然停止了。万物悄然地期待着。我静听，只能听到一只山雀的鸣叫……我们最常见的这种鸟，可以说是本地的特产，也是我们森林最明显的标志——或者偶尔还能听到蓝樱鸟的尖叫声，偶尔从森林肃穆的深处或许还会传来遥远的丧钟。于是思潮滚滚而来填补了这儿的真空。然而你走着走着，却突然从身边飞出一只斑鸠。周围依然是寂静干枯的森林，叶子差不多全落了，当然更无果实。你会感到纳闷，那只鸟儿在森林里怎能找到一点儿乐趣。那斑鸠是从一棵灌木栎树的树根处飞走的，它原本就像自己的干果，真是一只不朽的鸟!飞走的那一声仍然令我们为之一惊。干枯的菊科植物呈现灰色和白色，飞花一路沾上我们的衣服，柳条似的草本植物毛茸茸的种子皮让我们想起了夏天。也许你在干燥的田野里还会见到几株孤单的紫苑，还保留点儿颜色。榛树叶子全掉，除了红色果球之外别无所有了。

　　Autumn

　　November 8

　　The stillness of the woods and fields is remarkable at this season of the year. There is not even the creak of a cricket to be heard. Of myriads of dry shrub oak leaves, not one rustles. Your own breath can rustle them, yet the breath of heaven does not suffice to. The trees have the aspect of waiting for winter. The autumnal leaves have lost their color; they are now truly sere, dead, and the woods wear a somber color. Summer and harvest are over. The hickories, birches, chestnuts, no less than the maples, have lost their leaves. The sprouts, which had shot up so vigorously to repair the damage which the choppers had done, have stopped short for the winter. Everything stands silent and expectant. If I listen, I hear only the note of a chickadee…our most common and I may say native bird, most identified with our forests – or perchance the scream of a jay, or perchance from the solemn depths of these woods I hear tolling far away the knell of one departed. Thought rushes in to fill the vacuum. As you walk, however, the partridge still bursts away. The silent, dry, almost leafless, certainly fruitless woods. You wonder what cheer that bird can find in them. The partridge bursts away from the foot of a shrub oak like its own dry fruit, immortal bird! This sound still startles us. Dry goldenrods, now turned gray and white, lint our clothes as we walk. And the drooping, downy seed-vessels of the epilobium remind us of the summer. Perchance you will meet with a few solitary asters in the dry fields, with a little color left. The sumach is stripped of everything but its cone of red berries.

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