Flocks of golden leaves fly before the wind, rising and sinking and fluttering about.
The morning glories are dwarfs, but still keenly sensitive to frost. Slowly they die back to a withered brown, the lower, sheltered leaves and those tucked by the wall first, but within a week it looks like a plant that has been hung up in a witch's home to dry.
A great raven circles on the sky, turning this way and that -- its back stygian dark, and its front flaring white, so it shifts as it turns.
The stand of trees are all ruby red, some darker, some lighter, except that on the uppermost and outermost branches, you can see the withering where the frost has drained them.
A building has flocks of yellow leaves about it. Sometimes they swoop in on the roof; sometimes they just fly by, sometimes they surge up from the ground and over it -- and the leaves wagging back and forth, as if flapping. Sometimes they even shift from light to dark as if they were birds showing their backs after their bellies as they turn.
It snows. At first I think it is all melting but later I see the wisps of snow blown across the highway, low to the ground, long and sinuous.
Ah, the thrills of driving in snow. Skidding until I hit -- fortunately the curb. Or the exciting moments when trying to climb the hill toward home and seeing a line-up of cars ahead and some even turning back (and me having no idea where to go -- the other route is a little less steep, but winding back roads and the snow acculumates by the second) but I get up far enough to see the car with the blinkers on and fortunately the cars ahead of me try it and I get to go to, and we fishtail it up the hill and even turn off before a car comes the other way.
In the sunlight one forest of oaks glows. All the tall trees have lost their leaves, but the still growing saplings are covered still a warm golden shade of copper. But others, by cloudy light, are a deep rosy copper, and still others are as dark a shade of red as you can imagine.
A splotch of white on a tree branch resolves into the white belly of a hawk, sitting bolt upright and watching all before it.
Cold hits. The snow is little heaps in odd corners; it does not blanket the garden at all, and so it has visibly withered, with leaves losing all their liveliness if none of their green. (Oddly enough, though the temperature was single digits, some revive with warmth: the pansies particularly.)
On a leafless tree, far away, a bird sits. On the branches below, a flock of smaller birds varies between flight and perching. All are silhouetted against the sky, and species can not be told
The sky is gray, the pond as well, the trees about with, at most, brown leaves of oaks, and in the water, a pair of swans float, their creamy white feathers stark against the scene.