marycatelli (marycatelli) wrote,
marycatelli
marycatelli

autumn glories

The moon over the rooftop is surrounded by loose clouds -- one spreads an arm before it -- and its light is still a golden shade, tinged with red.

Against the blue sky is a scrap of white, and if it were not rounded on both sides -- one flatter than the other -- one might take the moon for a cloud. Only its shape betrays it.

And again the moon rises by night. So thick are the clouds over the top that it looks a smaller crescent, the golden shade tinged with red (it always reminds me of maraschino cherries), and only a steady look and the shifting of the clouds shows that the greater fullness.

a dove flies by, low, so low that I can see how rosy its head and breast are -- rosy for a dove, not a pure pink -- but especially beside the wings of pale gray and pale brown, you can see the ashes of roses shade.

How the trees turn. Alongside the road, rimming a cliff-face, the aspen turn bright yellow -- and wither quickly into a dingy dun. On the flowering tree, visible from my window, a single twig of a densely green tree has had its leaves turn bright flame orange. In a field, two towering and shaggy oaks are transforming into a dingy sort of opal, all rusty-orange brown commingled with its drab green.

Along the median, where the stands of trees are thin, the sunlight slants through in the morning and illuminates it like a wall of gleaming emeralds.

A skein of geese flies just over the building, not a wingspan above, and not sorted out neatly into those vs, however tangled. Waves of geese, two or three or four, followed one after another, shifting as the skein cohered.

However blustery, life must go on. The bumble bee flaps away, struggling to land on the bright red bloom. The butterfly, all yellow and black on a bright pink zinnia, fluttered vigorously, taking several moments to flit inches against the wind.

Three birds on a roof, fluffed up in the wind, pale beige and white -- takes a moment to be sure what kind they are -- then, to be sure, they are not the mourning doves I would expect to see on a ridgepole here, but rock doves, or as we more commonly call 'em, pigeons.

To the west spread the clouds, with the sunset staining their bottoms fiery pink, with the slate blue above -- but between them and the horizon spread the clear sky, intensely blue, more than sky blue -- as if someone had increased the saturation in Photoshop.

Usually, I see no pictures in the clouds, just elaborate froth past anything on earth, or wisps, or even bands. But today I saw one. All slate blue With small, puffy clouds -- longer than they were high -- with wisps dangling down and swaying to one side -- and they look perfectly like slate-blue jellyfish, their tendrils curving in a current.

Leaving work, I find that it takes a moment for the noise from the birds to resolve. Not birdsong -- but for a moment or two I took it for geese honking, when it was a murder of crows all cawing away.

The sky all a ripple with clouds in gray and pale yellow.

From the ridge, mist filled up the valley like a bowl of porridge.

The autumn strikes in full: the yellow trees are no longer alone among the greenness. Some are opals, all yellow and red and green and oranges intermingled, leaf by leaf. Others have one flaming orange or red bough among the greenery. One tree is not so much turning as sadly giving up: turning not yellow but a withered beige. Another has boughs of red and orange flaming away, and others of an olivey green as the leaves just wither toward brownness. And vines drape trees in crimson.

The misty morning foreshortens the view. Past the first row of trees, there's nothing but gray. By the time I drive to the highway, however -- on one hand it's still muffled in gray, trees and highway melting into invisibility, but to the other the mist is turning into ragged, dirty clumps like cleaning rags, fading away before a jewel-blue sky.

Driving along on a dove-gray day -- through a forest of firs and maples. All the maples turn the purest, most radiant yellow, glowing from the daylight, intermixed among the stygian green of the firs -- such stunning chiaroscuro.

Morning sunlight, striking sideways. It turns the green leaves almost olive, and among them branches stand like torches, vaulting up through pure yellow to fiery red at their tips.
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