It rains. I see it falling down. But the pavement remains dry for over a minute as it dissolves back into the air again. Only when it starts to pelt does the pavement show signs.
The crabapples are covered with small red fruit like berries or polished garnets.
The marsh is crowded with cattails losing their fluffy cover, and dotted with loosestrife and golden rod in full purple and gold bloom.
The purple verbena and blue lobelia are bleaching in patches, so that they carry every shade from the intense color to pure white.
The stonecrop blooms slowly. The entire head of white buds lingers and lingers, only slowly turning to pink.
All along the highway, morning glories clamber, with their trumpet-like flowers as white as snow.
A goldfinch often flits away when I open the window, its yellow not so much gold as fluorescent. (Really, goldfinch, eat all the coneflower seed you like; I appreciate it.)
A bird leaps from the road as the cars ahead of me drive toward it. From its darkness, it looks like a raven; from the breadth of wing, a hawk at least. It has left eyesight before I reach that stretch of the road.
A few years back they were ghastly spindly things, the few trees left standing after a thicket of forest had been cleared out. They had fledged out nicely, with boughs and branches making them look like proper trees.
The sunset colors the eastern clouds -- the last rags of Florence -- in pinks and reds so bright (with shadows of blue) that it takes a minute to be sure that one uncommonly red stripe is followed by other shades: orange and yellow, green, blue, and violet, to the end of the rainbow.
The preying mantis on my railing is the same brown as the wood it is on, and long and lean and hard to pick out. It shifts around a little as my descent moves it.
A bumblebee lands on Queen Anne's lace. All the white little flowerlets dance about as it walks to and fro.
The clouds are thick enough to blot out the sun, but at the very edge of one, the sundog shines in its radiant rainbow-colors.
The tree is pastel orange, shading from yellow to red in its hues, but always pale.
A hawk hangs in the air, its wings unbeating, at just the right height to look like a airplane flying up much higher. Then it starts to flap its wings. Moment later it's flying off -- and up, because it shrinks so quickly.
A heron is flapping along, its legs dangling behind, when a hawk start to swoop through the air, screaming. The heron dodges about and goes on flying.
Between the rain, the fog on the window, and the smears on the outside, a street light has a halo. It shades from red at the outer edge of the ring, to violent on the inside, and the ring just striated enough that it looks like an iris of an eye.
A big black bird is flitting out of the path of a car -- large, raptor-sized -- and then I drive by and see it's not a black vulture but a raven. Quite large enough to explain its impression.
A flock of sparrows twitters, pecking about, in grass tall enough that only their little brown heads sometimes come over them, but my approach produces many little cheeps and the birds flitting into the nearby bush.
A blue jay flies over, crying its harsh note -- but still with enough of a tone that it sounds like faintly musical, and not quite a crow's caw.
Autumn comes, as always, as a tree scarlet or gold or flame in the midst of masses of green. But between the wind and the rain, we have gone on to where the leaves are cascading down and leaving bare boughs, with much still green.
A skein of geese flies overhead, with one line, and one uneven v as the geese shift into place.
On the roadside, in the lush green lawn, enormous mushrooms spread flat, white tops and look astoundingly like litter.
Two enormous ravens perch on the roof, but the sound is the cry of the geese flying overhead.
Wind and rain. The woods are left an array of leafless trees and those in full green, with one or two showing yellow.
Trees turn red or yellow or orange all over, or color spreads down from the top, or various boughs turn shades of red and yellow while others stay green, until it looks like an opal, but one tree has its leaves turning golden from the edge in so that they look like gold-edged jade.
The thunderstorms are patchy; the rising moon illuminates them with an uncanny ruddy shade. in the west, the lightning forks down.
The fiery sunset lights up the tops of the trees, already all orange and red, so that all the color is redoubles over the shadows that engulf most of the trees.
The moon, just barely gibbous, hangs against the clouds. It looks sliced off. And very faintly green.
The rising sun shines through the tree's leaves, making all the yellow glow.