The moon rises, the red like maraschino cherries clashing with the soft blue sky. It looks large, but not the great vast towering effect I've sometimes seen. . . as I walk along, I glimpse it through the branches, once a rich orange-yellow, once a pure wheat-gold. When I arrive home again, it's turned a pale gold. Minutes later, high in the school and small once again, it's a pure pearly white.
Watering the garden in the evening (when it's less likely to evaporate, and also cooler for me) produces vast number of fluttering white moths, emerging from the leaves to fly the wetness.
A flare of ominous golden light as I walk briskly by the window -- I go back -- the moon is gibbous, waning nearly to half, and glows with a gold light tinged with orange -- still looks ominous.
Has it begun? The maple stands by a road, broad and towering and -- chirping. Every now and again a small brown bird flits out, about, back in, but the mass of the gathering flock can only be judged by the sound.
On the cliff-face by the road, the aspens are brightly yellow.
The sunset sky is a dusky peach tint, so faint as to be nearly gray, shading up to a blue almost as gray, except overhead is the tiniest sliver of an arc, the new moon the same dusky peach tint. The evening advances, darkening the sky, and the moon pales to the yellow shade of candle-flame.
The leaves are withering rather than turning with autumn, and a goldfinch flits across, a yellow to shame, and clash with, the dingy yellows of the trees.
The apple tree stands in the midst of the parking lot. The apples are swelling, and turning yellow, bright against the leaves.
The moon, once bright though slender, turns ghosty, wispy and gloom-like as the clouds pass over.
Wake to rain -- sweet, sweet, sweet rain -- and outside the window, the lawn is a patchwork of amber and fresh new green where the grass is sprouting again, having drunk deep.
A wild turkey struts across the road, as arrogant and stately as a peacock.
A stand of green pines had one in the midst turned wholly amber, though there's no reason visible why it perished alone.
The grass seethes with sparrows, hopping about and pecking away.
Thud! against the glass door. I look up. Two great birds have clearly collided with it, and each other. For a moment, as they stalk off, I think they are turkeys by the size, but no, the shape is wrong, and the color too dark. I walk off, and from another window I see them again. Pitch black, black as ravens, but too large -- and worse, the bald and wrinkled head is wrong. But a quick Google for "vulture black" turns up that they are, of all things, called black vultures, and the images clearly show the ugly heads.