marycatelli (marycatelli) wrote,
marycatelli
marycatelli

tales of the turning of the year

After sunset, in the orange light from the lamppost, the sound of motion and the sight of, off in the shadow, a rabbit looping farther into shadow can be spooky.

Orange floating and dancing in midair as a single leaf is borne by winds.

Red on the slope, where rose bushes are in full bloom, and the ground cover has clumps of leaves that turned scarlet.

A rabbit darts across the path and down into the lawn. I hadn't noticed it until it moved.

Down the slope, the valley is truly autumn, with golden trees thick among the still green ones, and several orange and red.

A squirrel climbs a maple, its fur being as gray as the bark.

A chipmunk is grayish brown on its front left leg, with its other side, and its hind leg, being the normal ruddy brown.

The sun behind the cloud. The thickness of the cloud is slate blue, but its edges are shaded with pink and yellow.

The wand flower goes into startling blossom in October, full of its delicate pink lopsided blooms.

A hawk, pale brown and white, flies before a slope all vividly orange and red with autumn.

In the darkening evening, the roses are a pale, vivid pink, worthy of the sunset, but the rose leaves' dark shade looks on the verge of black.

A fiery red and orange tree blazes in the midst of the less vivid colors about it, with brilliance rare after this drought.

A black squirrel sits up to inspect me, giving me a chance to verify that, yes, the black does extend all around; the belly is not only not white, it is just as dark as the back.

Sunlight shines over the autumnal valley, with shades of red and gold in delicate, subtle hues.

In among the blue dwarf morning glories, in shades of bluish violet, autumnal crocuses bloom. I hope they are storing up strength for the winter.

A forest full of golden orange leaves has a brilliant bluejay flit across them.

The butterfly weed is wreathed in fluffy white as the seed pods open one by one and the still air does not stir them. Over days, the seeds are blown away.

A long skein of geese stretches across the sky in a single line. I have never seen so many geese on wing without their breaking up into many little v's.

The burning bushes are turning. One by one. They do so in patches of ruby red, spreading out among the green and duller reds of summer.

A skein of geese forms a network of v's and I reflect on how less driving time means seeing less of the migrating geese. Later I see a line of geese with two a bit off. Then one moves into the line, but the last one remains off to one side, like a tiny v.

It snows. Though within the last week I was wearing sandals and shirtsleeves, it sticks. The lawn is patches of pure white and vivid green grass. My garden is filled with flowers bent low with their burden. (It is the deep chill tonight that will be the end of many of them, though.)

The honking echoed distantly, from a lattice of geese shifting back and forth in lines that wavered and crisscrossed. Minutes later, another skein went by -- a y, where a v had another line extending before it.

Frost strikes. The purslane and the moss roses die messily, looking half rotten the day after. The dwarf morning glories wither and look like dried herbs the next day. The cosmos turns black and bent. But the petunias suffer more in the bloom than the leaf, and soon put out new ones. The snapdragons blossom along, indifferent.

Windy day. Startled sparrows flit into a burning bush, but one is battering the air with its wings, straining to get in despite the wind. A hawk's soaring is unsteady. And a tree branch with many twigs is thrown through the air to hit on the road with its broken off end, and make all the leaves shiver and fall off.
Tags: nature
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