The roadside autumn is a subtle blend of shades, rusty orange, golden brown, a tree with red and orange and yellow all shifting into each other -- and then there stands a singleton tree, all ablaze in fiery red, or deep scarlet, or pure gold.
A patch of sunlight from the cloudy sky takes in one and only one hill, where a patchwork of trees are red or orange or yellow or green.
A neighbor's garden uses a bench as a trellis for morning glories, blossoming bright sky blue or a deep evening purple. With encroaching autumn, they bloom longer and longer, no longer morning but even in the evening. Alas, there was frost on the house tops, not much, but enough to kill. The vines and flowers were withered and black. Swiftly thereafter, the bench is bare, denuded of dead vines.
Along the roadside, the sunset sends light slanting through autumnal leaves; lower they are vivid amber, higher a ruby red, and the light makes them glow like stained glass.
Frost overlays the grass like crystal. I walk by the garden and note all the white outlined plants. In the evening I note those that show marks, dark spots or curled up leaves, of damage, and the few that withered from the touch -- and the next morning, without frost, I see more leaves and stems with damage, as if it took time to sink in.
The speedwell takes some time to realize the frost damage. The first days the exposed leaves are only more ruddy than the rest. But then they start to turn yellow and sere.
The dawn is almost cloudless. The color is a band of red, yellow and blue, arising in order if somewhat blurred in edges, and deep in color. Above it, tiny little clouds are dark blue with illuminated edges.
Streams do not run. The lakes and ponds still have water, but with gaps on their banks. Most impressive of all is a small, round pond on a farm, where coming down the road's hill gives a good view of how concentric circles lead down to the waters.
Along the side of the road, where the wayside had its greenery cut back, pine trees tower, all green canopy. Below them, growing where the cutting back let in the light, stand trees all aglow in gold, so that it formed a layer cake.
The top of the tree is leafless black twigs but below the leaves are so red that sunrise turns it into a fiery coal, shining through.
The slope of rough broken rock, clay brown, is scattered with gold from the leaves falling from those bold trees that had taken root and now flame gold here and there.
Rain, rain, glorious, beautiful rain, even if when I leave, my car is covered with litter of leaves (yellow, brown, green), and nuts that the wind carried. Even if the next morning -- as if a hurricane had come through -- the driveways are utterly carpeted with leaves.
A gust of wind blows brown things by, so swiftly that they look like dead leaves until, past me, they twist on the wind and fly upward, being little brown sparrows.
A rising half moon has a veil of clouds across its upper half, that diffuses the light so it is impossible to see whether it's a half moon or a gibbous one cut off by cloud.
On All Saints', a fluffy black cat, like a left-over from Halloween, darts across the parking lot, swiftly vanishing behind cars. When I reached the line I glance up and down, and at first see no sign -- but no, it did not magically vanish, it's visible far down the line.
The forest is metallic, with the pale to silvery trunks, and all about the leaves are coppery -- some dark, some pale, some verging on gold, but all shades of copper.