how subtle the leaves can be, a red and orange and yellow subdued toward gray so that beneath the cloudy sky they all harmonize. Though there are still those flaming red and orange as solitary trees in the midst of dark green conifers, the leaves have fallen so much that I can see the waterfall once hidden by the growing trees.
Such ugly mushrooms. Pallid white. Fat stalks and not much bigger heads -- where the heads have been knocked off, they show they are hollow -- and it looks not so much a natural growth as a tangle of plastic pipes half hidden by the mulch.
Other mushroom sprout under the trees, forming perfect circles, more touched with beige -- they look more ghostly than plastic.
Some oaks wither rather than turn. Leaves turning yellow and dingy brown. Some turn a rich coppery orange, or russet red. Other oaks turn the glorious, lambent, deep red, without a tinge of brownness to it.
The thing about burning bush is that it doesn't look burning at all. It looks rosy, almost pink, and if you see it right, perhaps among the milder yellows, it looks spring-like, and not autumnal at all.
When the clouds are just right, thin and spread like a layer, sometimes you glance up and see a sort of moon, round and silvery, but utterly featureless because it is in fact the sun, just veiled enough to let you look on it.
A row of trees in brilliant scarlet, but the wind has tossed some of them so their leaf turn up to show silvery-red.
Birds flock, great masses of them, chirping away and restlessly shifting from tree to tree in great streams of bird wings, all looking black silhouetted against the sky.
The slope has only oak leaves left; the rest are bare and brown, but the oaks shift from brown to copper to rich yellow over the hillside.
Misty morning has the horizon a mass of gray, except where the bare boughs of a hilltop forest are a black tangle rising from the mist and silhouetted against it.
Snow spread over a grassy slope, a thin layer, that turns the green to a delicate crystalline shade.
Snow covers the sides of a hollow, pure white, and at the bottom the snow melt is black as coal, ruffled in the wind, sometimes into high waves.
A scene of paleness. The sky is gray. Below spread the waters, silvery gray in reflection, with pale gold rushes thick on the shore, and in the center, pure white swans.
Freezing rain covers all, green and pale gold and rich brown, with a glaze of shining paleness.
In the wooded lots, a rainfall brings up streams in things that were not even obviously stream beds before. The water runs brown and murky -- to a culvert that I had never seen before, but making the path clear.
Early morning, the sky is dark gray, and the lake a more metallic shade of it -- with leafless trees black and stark between -- and the swans there are vivid against the gloom.
It rains and rains. The trees in the forest are leafless and black with the moisture, but the saplings in them are still covered with leaves -- not yet bleached pale by the winter sun, still golden and some even coppery against the darkness.
Puffy white clouds shifted through the sky. Along the edges of some, colors gleam, all the shades of the rainbow, less organized as one edge holds one and one another.
Through the leafless trees and the forest floor of dead, drab leaves, the stream tumbles, foaming whitely, about the rocks. You can still see the stony wall to one side, but much of it lies tumbled and grayish brown, spreading the stream over a broad expanse and filling it with foam.
i look out the window at work: a bright and shining day, a few clouds in the sky, clear and defined. I look back at work (I sit by a window). Then I look up again. What's that white flying through the air? Masses of it, veiling the trees just on the other side of the parking lot (which itself is only a lane between the two sets of cars). All falling from a completely overcast sky.
The rock faces are starting to grow their cascades of ice. Not so thick as to be greenish or blue, yet, but driving down the highway reveals the foaming ice. (Rather like the waterfall now all white ice caught in cascades.)
Between two stands of forest, where a road is overgrown with grass but not gone, with snow lying all about, three deer stand like statues, dark against the morning light.