fall's scenes
Nov. 18th, 2021 11:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marycatelliAcross the lot, a maple, still green, has a topmost branch like a ruby in its redness.
A sapling has some green about its lowest branches, its highest branches as leafless as can be, and all between a deep red.
Sunlight shines through the leaves on the brush. All of them are pure, pure red and as brilliant as stained glass.
The path from road to house goes downhill. To either hand stand bushes, light, airy, set with pale pink flowers here and there in the autumn.
Sun shines through the thick forest, gilding both the green leaves and the fewer ones that are yellow, so yellow and green can hardly be told apart.
A tree turns, not bough by bough, nor from the top to the bottom, nor even from outside in, but from the inside out. Inside, all is ruddy red, but the farthest branches are tipped with green.
A gibbous moon hangs behind the clouds, all torn apart and lying on the sky like the scales of a mackerel.
Among the coneflowers that have gone to seed in bristling black seedheads, flowers bloom, a bit ragged, deeply pink.
A path along the brook, trees growing plentifully and turning red and yellow, not a feather in sight despite many of the branches being leafless, but the clamor of the flocks fills the air.
The moon rises among the clouds, the clouds all delicate blues and pinks from the sunset though they spread in the east, and the moon itself a shade of yellow as delicate.
Geese go aloft in their skeins, sorting themselves out Vs and Ws and Ys all flowing into each other, and shifting as they rise -- and once a perfectly line of geese, flying steadily and without deviation.
Clouds spread, touched with blue and pink from sunset. To the west they are choppy, like waves, and at once place a round cloud like a white orange is covered by another set of clouds, dark blue, in choppy pattern, but to the east, they are clouds with a comma below as rain falls and dissolves again into air, arching on the way, and the most brilliantly rose colored clouds in the sky in their path.
The moon rises in the dark. It is purely orange, all over, against the deep blue of the sky.
Sunset is hot pink in the west, and ahead of me, to the north, are thick, tower clouds of cobalt blue, and a rainbow. Pallid, looking in part like a pillar of smoke, but you can make out the colors in it as it stretches up.
Against the gray sky, the birds fly -- all songbirds, most small, a few larger, all black because black lit -- between one stand of pines and the next.
The autumnal crocuses always surprise me, palely purple in the garden -- some are turning into formidable clumps.
A sapling is back lit -- a tracing of dark branches, leafless, and a flourish of leaves glowing like fiery rubies with the sunlight gleaming through.
The road leads into a tunnel, the bridge is so wide, and the span between the roof of the tunnel and road over it is filled with brush in greens and reds and yellows, and you can not see the tunnel's end from its beginning.
Down the road the oaks stand, solemn in brown as if attending a ceremony.
The crescent moon, in its pale yellow, hangs so low over the sunset that it looks as large as the full moon does, rising.
The flocks of birds arise from trees and flit about, bearing some resemblance to smoke.
The trees are in layers. One has orange-red near the bottom, brilliant ruby red through the body, and on top, red so dark that even the sunlight behind it does not make it glow. Others are brilliant yellow turning steadily more dingy upward to the brown on the top.
The dark flecks soaring over the street, turning this way or that, have to turn the right way to show they are birds and not wind-borne leaves, though the sign ahead also gives a clue: dead leaves do not regard the corrugated back of a sign to be a good perching place.
Rainfall and wind drive leaves to the ground. From the window, the hillside shows gray. One tree rises with a full array of russet red leaves. Down by the stream, where the trunks can not hide it, a single bush shows a pure ruby red, small but fully leaved.
Blue flits through the leafless boughs, but a glance to see reveals it is not a bluejay. It's a bluebird -- an actual bluebird! My first ever! A small bird, its blue and its red belly a little less brilliant than in photos I have seen, but still vivid.
A lone blue flower, no bigger than my fingertip, blossoms on the grace ward despite the frosts.
A sapling has some green about its lowest branches, its highest branches as leafless as can be, and all between a deep red.
Sunlight shines through the leaves on the brush. All of them are pure, pure red and as brilliant as stained glass.
The path from road to house goes downhill. To either hand stand bushes, light, airy, set with pale pink flowers here and there in the autumn.
Sun shines through the thick forest, gilding both the green leaves and the fewer ones that are yellow, so yellow and green can hardly be told apart.
A tree turns, not bough by bough, nor from the top to the bottom, nor even from outside in, but from the inside out. Inside, all is ruddy red, but the farthest branches are tipped with green.
A gibbous moon hangs behind the clouds, all torn apart and lying on the sky like the scales of a mackerel.
Among the coneflowers that have gone to seed in bristling black seedheads, flowers bloom, a bit ragged, deeply pink.
A path along the brook, trees growing plentifully and turning red and yellow, not a feather in sight despite many of the branches being leafless, but the clamor of the flocks fills the air.
The moon rises among the clouds, the clouds all delicate blues and pinks from the sunset though they spread in the east, and the moon itself a shade of yellow as delicate.
Geese go aloft in their skeins, sorting themselves out Vs and Ws and Ys all flowing into each other, and shifting as they rise -- and once a perfectly line of geese, flying steadily and without deviation.
Clouds spread, touched with blue and pink from sunset. To the west they are choppy, like waves, and at once place a round cloud like a white orange is covered by another set of clouds, dark blue, in choppy pattern, but to the east, they are clouds with a comma below as rain falls and dissolves again into air, arching on the way, and the most brilliantly rose colored clouds in the sky in their path.
The moon rises in the dark. It is purely orange, all over, against the deep blue of the sky.
Sunset is hot pink in the west, and ahead of me, to the north, are thick, tower clouds of cobalt blue, and a rainbow. Pallid, looking in part like a pillar of smoke, but you can make out the colors in it as it stretches up.
Against the gray sky, the birds fly -- all songbirds, most small, a few larger, all black because black lit -- between one stand of pines and the next.
The autumnal crocuses always surprise me, palely purple in the garden -- some are turning into formidable clumps.
A sapling is back lit -- a tracing of dark branches, leafless, and a flourish of leaves glowing like fiery rubies with the sunlight gleaming through.
The road leads into a tunnel, the bridge is so wide, and the span between the roof of the tunnel and road over it is filled with brush in greens and reds and yellows, and you can not see the tunnel's end from its beginning.
Down the road the oaks stand, solemn in brown as if attending a ceremony.
The crescent moon, in its pale yellow, hangs so low over the sunset that it looks as large as the full moon does, rising.
The flocks of birds arise from trees and flit about, bearing some resemblance to smoke.
The trees are in layers. One has orange-red near the bottom, brilliant ruby red through the body, and on top, red so dark that even the sunlight behind it does not make it glow. Others are brilliant yellow turning steadily more dingy upward to the brown on the top.
The dark flecks soaring over the street, turning this way or that, have to turn the right way to show they are birds and not wind-borne leaves, though the sign ahead also gives a clue: dead leaves do not regard the corrugated back of a sign to be a good perching place.
Rainfall and wind drive leaves to the ground. From the window, the hillside shows gray. One tree rises with a full array of russet red leaves. Down by the stream, where the trunks can not hide it, a single bush shows a pure ruby red, small but fully leaved.
Blue flits through the leafless boughs, but a glance to see reveals it is not a bluejay. It's a bluebird -- an actual bluebird! My first ever! A small bird, its blue and its red belly a little less brilliant than in photos I have seen, but still vivid.
A lone blue flower, no bigger than my fingertip, blossoms on the grace ward despite the frosts.
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Date: 2021-11-19 12:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-11-19 10:18 pm (UTC)