Lone trees here and there, among the leafless, still splendid with color: one copper, another pure yellow, still another a fiery red.
Across the road, a glow behind the clouds. A leafless tree traces out fractal intricacies against it, and a band of cloud is outlined, and just a scrap of the moon shows. Driving along reveals it it more clearly, a third of the arc coming clear -- and enormous. (But that is not the super-moon causing it, but because it is still rising). And a bit later, framed with clouds outlined in white, it glows, enormous and white, still rising.
One wanders down the path, noting the frost -- except that at the car, the way it fell makes it clear that it was snow. And indeed, throughout the day, the air sometimes held the fluttering flakes, slow to descend in their lightness.
The lake is silver and brown, with the clouds muffling the sky, and the last leaves being only those of oaks, in shades of brown with only the faintest traces of copper left on only a couple of the oaks, the other trees all bare branches, and two swans resting in the lee of an island, pale as snow.
How beautiful is the pale marsh, frost-wreathed, in the morning. The grasses and rushes were already bleached a pale blond, and the frost turns them silver.
A squirrel scampers across the road: white as snow.
The last snapdragons are blooming in pinks and reds. One is holding furled buds, already visible as deep pink, but it will be blighted; the weather is about to be a deep chill.
Winter walking to the door goes past the dead coneflowers, their stalks and dried seedheads (pecked at by birds) stiff and stark. And they, abruptly, rattle with motion. My quickest glance is incapable of picking out the form that moved them, even whether beast or bird.