We won’t move very far this morning–only down the steep bank from yesterday’s vantage point, down into the creek bed, stepping carefully from rock to rock in our street shoes.
If you look at yesterday’s image with the road as focus, today you see the same fallen trunk across the creek with the creek itself–a trickle though it is–reflecting the first yellow and gold.
And green. If there is, as I have written, a “neither-nor” season as spring comes so agonizingly slowly, there is the autumn equivalent, still green while leaves sound brittle and senescent even before they yellow and fall. And a slow departure makes the transition a bit easier to get our minds and hearts around.
Days shorten. Life centers within walls. The smell of woodsmoke and wool blankets. Bring it on.