A furious and gusty wind stripped the trees near the house bare last Thursday. Cottonwoods, sycamores, black walnuts, the 100-year-old silver maple out back—all caught naked before the sun had gone down. For the better part of summer and early fall, we had set up one of our market canopies (the first one we ever owned, a little 10’-square humble contraption with a red nylon “roof” and splayed retractable legs) just at the western edge of the mulberry grove off the front porch and spent many an afternoon gathered with dear family and friends, working out the world’s ills and scraping salad bowls and casserole dishes clean while the kittens gamboled about between our stretched-out legs. Pulling up to the house after work last week, the whole affair was caught helplessly on two of our shepherd’s hooks, the red nylon canopy ripped and ragged, metal frame bent and tangled. I guess that’s it, then. Summer is officially over.

Friday morning’s walk was a scouting expedition filled with curiosity at every bend in the path—what did the wind knock over and lay down that would require chainsaw skills and heavy lifting to clear? I can still spot a new fallen tree in the woods, even though last year’s soldiers lay peaceful and spent on the forest floor, now horizonal food and shelter for the four-legged and winged creatures who take up residence there. Some of the smaller trunks get caught on their way down and hang suspended between the branches of their siblings. It’s a physics lesson and moment of wonder all in one, and my secret desire to be at least near the woods when these mighty relatives fall rises to the surface. What does a falling tree sound like when it hits the ground here? I’ve only heard that one time during the derecho of 2012 (when I also had the frightened privilege of seeing a bolt of lightning strike the sinewy arm of an osage orange on the ridge) and it was from within the safety of our home’s walls (swaying ever so slightly on the foundation). I’d beat it to the bathtub to crouch with a towel double-folded across my head and neck, doubting the protection that was supposed to give my arteries and spinal cord. Bottom line: big trees fall hard and loud and the ground shudders on impact. I can only assume it happens similarly in the woods.

Wind and gravity are a potent combination and in mid-autumn, creating a spectacle worth pulling up a chair for. As I sat on my favorite fallen tree in the woods early yesterday morning, I watched as a red maple and its neighboring blue beech unhinged leaves from their uppermost branches. Somehow, Thursday’s gusts had spared or missed these gentle giants and it was the sheer definition of serene to bear witness to gravity’s softer touch. Leaves make letting go look effortless. I’ve seen spinners, spiralers, floats and short drops and upon inspection, the landing looked quiet and nonviolent. How does something go from attachment to sweet release with no broken bones? Sure wish all the headers I’ve taken in my short lifetime were as graceful and poetic.

We need softer landings these days, my dear friends. As the Ohio drought trudges on, I’m betting on a cooling autumn’s last drops of morning dew to sink into the soil around our cherry and oak trees and one particularly thirsty curly willow. Some mornings the grass is juicy and my walking wellies collect stray maple and shagbark leaves, little itinerant travelers plastered securely to the toes of my boots until a thick patch of crabgrass combs them off into a new adventure. It’s not enough of a drink to reverse the damage of the past several weeks, but the land sips it in anyway. Mild and episodic frosts will soon give way to winter’s white and frozen coat of snow and we’ll need to tuck in closer to one another just to keep warm.

I think that’s the key to survival. Letting go and settling in together. We can do this. It’s just how we are.