Autumn, observes the naturalist Edwin Way Teale in a piece I was reading the other day, is a time of scattering.  Unlike spring, he notes, usually experienced as a time of genesis and rebirth, autumn, coming on the heels of summer's lazy abundance, causes us to regroup, to take heed, to recognize that life doesn't always flow in straight lines, that existence isn't always clear and direct, and that we walk aware that things do end, that things must be let go, that wonder grows alongside longing and, sadly, despair.
     On the other hand, if we watch the animals use autumn to prepare for winter, we notice that, unlike the summer, when everything came easily, the animals seem to live ever more intensely as autumn comes upon them, feverishly working to ready themselves for the coming cold and snow.  There's no time to fret, there's no time to despair; rather, it is a time to grapple even harder with the joyful challenges of existence, the beautiful angst of being alive.
     And why not?  They know, as do we, that after winter comes spring, the spring that the writer of Proverbs 27 notes, is "the new growth that is seen."  In a universe of purpose, a purpose implicit in the fact of divine creation, possibility, not one of unverifiable quantum nothingness, but of intelligence and intention, always remains.