A slope is turning, gently, with sumac and aspens shading from green to yellow.
Directly before me on the highway is the divide. To the right is the thick, dingy gray clouds, raining; to the left, blue skies and delicate pink clouds, dreamily hazy; and a vivid fork of lighting blazes white between them to the ground. The way goes left, and the view before is all blue sky and pink clouds where it can be seen through the pelting rain in vast raindrops splattering in great splotches across the windshield (even with the wipers on high). And after a necessary visit to the store through that pelting rain, I come out to see clouds brilliantly white, touched with palest gold, as the rain continues to fall in great downpours, and run down the parking lot so deeply that my sandal soles are engulfed. (At least I avoided the flood by the storm drain)
Why the fluffy white tail? Walking along the path in the evening, I see a bounding flash of white off to one side. I might not even have noticed the rabbit even if it had fled were it not for the tail. (Another rabbit, later, is noticeable even sitting still; its long shadow from the streetlight betrays it.)
The sky has small, puffy clouds, in rows and rows, forming not circles but irregular polygons in the sky, and as I watch, the descending sun reaches the point at which it illuminates all from below -- from the west in gold, to the north and south in rose, and the pattern stretched out like a fractal mathematical net, all polygons with blue in the center.
The goldenrod, bent over by rain, is thick with bees that look black against the yellow of the flowers. When they lift off, the gold is visible, but soon they alight again.
The marsh is full. Between the cattails, jewelweed bushes are covered with their bright orange flowers and purple loosestrife stand among them.
There is water there. You can hear the gurgle, if you listen with enough care, and the culvert betrays it as well, but you can see the glint only with greatest care, given the loosestrife and the late knapweed blooming purple, and the other plants, Queen Anne's lace in white bloom and the others merely growing green, and thickly, over the streamlet.
The gray in the air has to be rain, though the pavement is dry. Then I walked, dry, to under the deck and, in its shelter, look out at the rain.
The moon looks quite golden, frame by a diamond-shaped setting of clouds -- the nearest ones tinged orange, those farther off, blue.
The tree is half dead, with leaves only on the lower branches, and birds perch on the dead boughs. Even the certainty, by their shape, that they are doves, does not make them look less than ominous.
The great black sow at the fair has her farrow, and some are black, but others have splotches. Two have a belt of the piggy sort of pink around their middles.
Only a scrap of the spider web in the window is visible, and only because the sunlight hits it just right to make it glow iridescently, from red at one end to violet at the other.
A patch of intensely blooming pink asters, with more flower visible than greenery, and almost every single bloom has a bee on it -- the darker sort of bumblebee mostly -- except one that has a tiny little butterfly, its wings black and orange in a mathematical sort of bubbles.
A chunky moth flies for a bit without flapping its wins and looks like a tiny drone.
A bird circles about in the air, soaring on thermals -- perhaps a large raven, perhaps a hawk -- and finally straightens out and flies with the sun to its back, so that the sunlight comes through the feathers -- there being three bands, the opaque where it is black, a darker gray, a lighter one, and the palest of all where the sunlight gleams through.
A tree is turning from the outside of the leaf in, a golden rim about the green.
Is that the moon? Thin and curved, but the white seems a bit wispy about the edge against the sky blue. (Evening progresses. The moon becomes more definite as the sky darkens, and against the dark blue is tinged with gold.)
A fledgling mourning dove, marked by the dark splotches on its feathers, sits on the rack on a car. It eyes me as I walk by but concludes it need not fly off.
A tree has a few scarlet leaves, here and there throughout the green.
The rain bows down the flax with its lacy stalks and bejewels it with diamond like drops as the streetlights are caught in the droplets.
The moon has risen high, but with the clouds billowing around it, against the deep, deep blue sky, and the stark shadow of a chimney, make it loom like near the horizon.
Among the rocks of the wall, here and there, the cinquefoil grows with little, brilliant yellow flowers.
Among the bands of clouds the rising moon is visible, both moon and clouds a vivid harvest orange.
The tree cutters came through, and you can see into the forest, where the tree trunks are gray, and a single small tree -- taller than sapling -- is covered with vivid red leaves.
Sunlight gleams through the leaves growing on the tree trunk, turning them ruby red.
A stand of pansies all bright red and deep red and touched with yellow, and the fall leaves among them are red and orange in all shades.
A stand of autumnal trees, a row of them all black bark and bare leaves, and one of them with a ragged collection of the last leaves, vividly red, but on the lower boughs.
The wood is copper. All the saplings and young trees are covered with coppery leaves, and the sun shines through them all to make it glow. The next day, in the cloud and rain, the darker colors still are vivid ruddy.
A flock of birds seethes in the air, rising and falling like a simmering pot about to burst into boiling.
The first formations of ice on the surface of ponds or against the river banks looks very like scum. Darkish, splintered, and choppy.
The geese, honking madly, fly in rising, uneven formations, though the lines are visible -- and then as they have gone by, more honking sounds. From the direction they had come from. It takes a minute for the lone goose and the smaller V's to be clear.