Looking down at the valley filled with shades of red and orange and yellow and green, in a patchwork, with no trees in sequence in the same color.
Crows in full fettle on the trees, cawing away at each other over the grassy swards.
A tree of glowing yellow and orange -- drawing near show some boughs, hidden by the outer ones, with leaves of deep garnet red and green, as well.
The roadside trees have leaves that look withered, and a flock of birds is arising from it -- and flying over the road, and looking much like a cloud of smoke from a burning tree -- for one thing, more and more and more keep pouring out from the tree, until you wondered it could have borne the burden of so many.
A honk alerts to the geese flying, low, overhead, barely clearing the rooftops, but formed into an elegant V and off on their way.
how the evening sky changes toward the east -- the pale blue shifting into the eggshell shade. The moon hangs against it, for a few minutes looking the shade of a cloud. Only a few -- the sky darkens too swiftly, and even against the blue only a little darker, it shines.
Poor, silly squirrel -- one of our black ones about here -- crouched frozen, eying me, on the slope between the path and the bank of the cat-tail laden marsh, until I walked too far along the path and it leapt ahead to scramble under the bridge and crouch under the steps. Well and good, until I reached the steps and started to climb. It leapt up and scampered along the bridge until it stopped under the railing to eye me. I didn't stop. Three or four times it scurried along only to pause, swishing its tail, to see if that was the trick. . . fortunately for it, it turned the other way at the end of the bridge. It ran farther when I climbed down the steps, but then I took the other path, leaving it free to go about its squirrely business.
How the bees love the snapdragons, still blossoming away in hot pink and sunset orange. Honey bees and bumble bees alike haunt them.
Evening sends sunlight slanting over the ground, into a fiery red tree, whose leaves all glow like stained glass.
Winter is coming. A tree is silhouetted against the evening sky, every branch and bough bare and black against the pale blue and the eggshell yellow and the green where they commingle.
A proper Halloween all right. Rising up early in the morning to sneak a peek at the window and find it as stygian as night in the fog that was lit up with mercury vapor street lights, giving it a proper hell-fire glow. It turned to clearly morning gray before I finished dressing, but even when I left for work, the first row of trees was followed by gray, without a sign of the hills rolling behind. Driving down the highway saw a high hilltop still swathed in gray, and it remained cloudy, and not a dove gray at that.
A cobalt blue dawn, with all the clouds wind swept, like rags leaping through the air, and subtly shaded in blues.
How strange it feels to drive down a road in the darkening evening, all the trees lining on either side being utterly leafless and their bark all but black with dampness, but at the corner, the turnoff is lined with trees still flaming with red -- a richer shade, more like flame than the more brilliant shades of earlier.
The hills are also richer, with the brownish reds of oaks, and other, deeper shades of orange, speckled here and there among the masses of leafless trees, whose brownish grey branches spread like thickets of smoke.
A skein of geese draws the gaze with their muted cry. They fly more like a lattice than a v -- and it shifts with every flap of the wing, forming a W, and then a string across the sky.
A stand of oaks by the road show all shades of a coppery brown, some closer to brown, others to red, others to yellow.
The geese are flying higher and higher, no longer the locals gathering for flight, but the far off geese, having fared far already, up against the clouds. They shift and stir, forming a perfect diamond at one point before smoothly moving the lines into an array of v's.
A heron perches on a hotel, silhouetted against the dove gray morning clouds. It looks like a sculpture, standing there -- as if they would install a heron statue there. Only as I drive up to the light in the street below does it turn its head -- it looks for a moment as if it had no head, so straight toward me does it look -- and then back so that its beak could been seen again, and there's no evidence other that it's a bird and not a statue.
In the vacant lot, bushes grow. One has its leaves a pure rose red. Behind it stands a sapling, its leaves a pure flame red. The sunlight pours through both, making them as gleaming as stained glass.
Against the slate blue clouds, the sunset is a ferocious pink, far more intense and bright than anything else in nature, in bands on the clouds' underbellies. In their center, a pink column burns upward, a beam that spread from cloud to cloud. Even as the sunset shifts, growing darker, to a rosy shade, the column gleams among the clouds.
Reeds, gone to seed, look drab and disarrayed in the shadow. Even in glancing light, the seeds are so translucent that they shine. And when the sunlight strikes from directly behind both the tuft of seeds and the stalk glow the palest of golds.
Butter-and-eggs, even in November, sprouted up on the median and blossomed in yellow and orange.
The moon hung, enormous and tinged with yellow, over the hillside, but driving along the road had the hill eat it up, like a moonrise in reverse. I drove for miles as if on a moonless night with the hills about; not till I reached home did I see it again, smaller and whiter with its new height.
Two trees, leafless and silhouetted black against the sky. On one, an array of crows sit, calm and silhouetted on their pearches. On the other, a few crows find themselves in the midst of a shifting flock of smaller birds, too dark to be distinct in their silhouettes, ceasely flying from here to there, often looking like a cloud of smoke as they shifted about, swirling about the tree, always having a handful of bird in flight, until they settle and a final bird flies up and perches on an outer branch. As if on cue, the crows start to shift about the other tree.
A windy day. Across the road, a stretch of land is barren even of stubble, readied for construction perhaps, but the dry clay earth offers no resistance to the wind. Great puffs of ruddy dust float over the field, more clay rising as other grains fall.
A week ago I could wear sandals. Now when I go for a mid-day walk, I don my winter coat, hat, scarf, and gloves. I bend my head against the wind, seeing little but the road on the way; still my face stings from the wind striking. I do not peel off the scarf until I have walked more than a mile, warming myself. Winter is come.