August to autumn
Oct. 21st, 2023 09:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marycatelliAh, coneflowers. A brilliant pink and orange when first blossoming, but soon they shift before the sunlight and turn a more subtle shade of pink, the center turning deeper red, which has its own charms, especially in brilliant sunlight, but let the sun slacken, and they look drab and dispirited, especially when contrasted with still brilliant black-eyed susans, or with a brilliantly yellow daylily with the sunshine pouring down and in and out again through translucent petals in a way that the opaque coneflowers and black-eyed susans can not match.
A vast tree branch lies on the ground, the only visible evidence of the storm last night. The tree bears no visible mark of where it was torn off. Perhaps the wind blew it, large though it is, from the other side? Starting to walk about, though, reveals the pale, gaping break, far up on the tree, with several boughs below, and they show no sign of damage.
The moon rises, each night, half veiled by cloud, and the shade of a ripe peach behind them.
The season is good for Queen Anne's lace. Vast clouds of delicate white flowers -- here and there black-eyed Susans, goldenrod just fledging, milkweed, but the Queen Anne's lace is in full season.
The goldfinches have begun the feast. They may even be migrating, not the ones whose haunts were this neighborhood this summer, but they flit off when I show up, lifting from coneflowers in full seed.
A rotund loaf of bread sits in the lawn, where ordinarily more ordinary mushrooms grow. It sits and over days bakes from off white to brown, and then shows signs of dark mold. And then the blackness engulfs it all, looking now like a burnt loaf of bread -- especially after the top comes off, leaving jagged edges. Meanwhile, another, smaller, one sprouts, a little more in the hood and thinner in the stem, so the muffin is closer to a mushroom. It doesn't have time to brown, as the grass is moved leaving scraps of black and white mushroom scattered about.
A hummingbird flits about the tiny little flowers of the cottonwood -- distinguishable from a hummingbird moth by its iridescence.
The windflowers had begun to bloom about the neighborhood, and now, finally, in the front garden. The asters are putting forth buds -- in August, not July, perhaps fall is closer to seasonable.
The moon hangs, a delicate crescent of gold, in the sunset between the pink and the blue hazed over with gray, for two nights, before it hangs, pure white, over the clouds in pink and cream as they turn violet, and then it
Birds hop about the branches, in the shade. Too bright, I think, to be waxwings, and the red's not right to be a she-cardinal, and finally they have enough light on them that they are almost certainly juvenile cardinals, patchy in red and brown.
One night the moon shines through clouds, yellowed as the clouds, lit from within, sprawl about. The next it rises orange, turns to yellow in an indigo sky such that it looks more like an illustration than the actual moon.
The sun shines bright, and the trees shine and are shadowed. The birch looks almost black and white, the sheen of the leaves reflecting light brilliant, and the rest dark by contrast. Maples are thicker and get the paler greens and the darker ones, often much darker.
The moon rises, a sullen red, and gibbous, so that the dark part looks like black smoke encroaching on some fire.
By the parking lot, bushes sprung up, wild, and now bear stalks of tiny white flowers. A monarch flits from one to one, perching to eat, and its wings flap, with one side brilliantly, jewel-like orange, and the other a much more washed out orange.
At first it looks, by streetlight, like an albino squirrel is springing its way toward the trees. But not only its tail is fluffy, and as it shifts, the black underneath is clear, and with that size comes into perspective, and it's a good thing it's a good distance and moving away, the skunk.
There is something littered on the walkway, crumpled up black with a fleck of orange. Except that it then flexes, and the butterfly shakes out its black wings with their little orange eye on them.
A glimpse of the wings reveals a large bird flying between two trees, below the height of the window -- perhaps a hawk, but no, the wings are too gray, and the shape comes clear as a heron.
In the hollow, the water still puddles from thunderstorm. On the slope leading to it, where the two slopes meet, the grass lies where the current bore it, so that the blades look combed downhill.
Fall has come. When the goldfinches start from the coneflower seeds, a flock of half a dozen fly off.
The moon rises. Right by it, bright as a topaz, shines a star, like a setting of gems.
The rain made the mushrooms flourish. One set is all off white, enormous, with tops that rise up like cups rather than sink like caps.
Many trees are turning dingy, drab brown. Others are sandwiches: orange and yellow in the middle, with green to either side, or green in the center as the edges turn red and orange and gold.
The leaf, pale brown, sits in the middle of the road. Until startled by a walker, whereupon the mourning dove leaps up and flies off.
The asters grow thickly, if palely, this year. Great clouds of white faintly tinged with purple. The burning bush is already fading in the sunlight, the brilliant burning red that so swiftly turns a delicate pink, more spring-like than autumnal.
A wooly caterpillar books down the path. Not so swiftly than it can not be easily walked by, but distinctly swift, despite predicting a warm winter, given an enormous amber brown middle with the barest tips of black.
A little bird, ruddy brown, scuttles up to a patch of grass in the pavement. There it flips over and reveals itself a leaf.
Here, there, everywhere there are pines, the mushrooms grow like pale, enormous pegs, with perfectly flat tops.
A heron flaps along in flight, visible here and there through the tree tops as it traces the path over the stream.
Autumn arrives in force, with enormous flocks of small birds swirling through the air like clouds.
A pair of geese migrate, low over the trees, honking.
The rain goes with rainbows. I spot them four times. The last two were certainly the same: I glimpse a small, stout rainbow, from the cloud to the earth like a pillar, without visible arc. The other two were some distance apart, the glimpses, but both were grave arcs, high up into the sky.
Autumn is in full force: the autumnal crocuses bloom purple.
A vast tree branch lies on the ground, the only visible evidence of the storm last night. The tree bears no visible mark of where it was torn off. Perhaps the wind blew it, large though it is, from the other side? Starting to walk about, though, reveals the pale, gaping break, far up on the tree, with several boughs below, and they show no sign of damage.
The moon rises, each night, half veiled by cloud, and the shade of a ripe peach behind them.
The season is good for Queen Anne's lace. Vast clouds of delicate white flowers -- here and there black-eyed Susans, goldenrod just fledging, milkweed, but the Queen Anne's lace is in full season.
The goldfinches have begun the feast. They may even be migrating, not the ones whose haunts were this neighborhood this summer, but they flit off when I show up, lifting from coneflowers in full seed.
A rotund loaf of bread sits in the lawn, where ordinarily more ordinary mushrooms grow. It sits and over days bakes from off white to brown, and then shows signs of dark mold. And then the blackness engulfs it all, looking now like a burnt loaf of bread -- especially after the top comes off, leaving jagged edges. Meanwhile, another, smaller, one sprouts, a little more in the hood and thinner in the stem, so the muffin is closer to a mushroom. It doesn't have time to brown, as the grass is moved leaving scraps of black and white mushroom scattered about.
A hummingbird flits about the tiny little flowers of the cottonwood -- distinguishable from a hummingbird moth by its iridescence.
The windflowers had begun to bloom about the neighborhood, and now, finally, in the front garden. The asters are putting forth buds -- in August, not July, perhaps fall is closer to seasonable.
The moon hangs, a delicate crescent of gold, in the sunset between the pink and the blue hazed over with gray, for two nights, before it hangs, pure white, over the clouds in pink and cream as they turn violet, and then it
Birds hop about the branches, in the shade. Too bright, I think, to be waxwings, and the red's not right to be a she-cardinal, and finally they have enough light on them that they are almost certainly juvenile cardinals, patchy in red and brown.
One night the moon shines through clouds, yellowed as the clouds, lit from within, sprawl about. The next it rises orange, turns to yellow in an indigo sky such that it looks more like an illustration than the actual moon.
The sun shines bright, and the trees shine and are shadowed. The birch looks almost black and white, the sheen of the leaves reflecting light brilliant, and the rest dark by contrast. Maples are thicker and get the paler greens and the darker ones, often much darker.
The moon rises, a sullen red, and gibbous, so that the dark part looks like black smoke encroaching on some fire.
By the parking lot, bushes sprung up, wild, and now bear stalks of tiny white flowers. A monarch flits from one to one, perching to eat, and its wings flap, with one side brilliantly, jewel-like orange, and the other a much more washed out orange.
At first it looks, by streetlight, like an albino squirrel is springing its way toward the trees. But not only its tail is fluffy, and as it shifts, the black underneath is clear, and with that size comes into perspective, and it's a good thing it's a good distance and moving away, the skunk.
There is something littered on the walkway, crumpled up black with a fleck of orange. Except that it then flexes, and the butterfly shakes out its black wings with their little orange eye on them.
A glimpse of the wings reveals a large bird flying between two trees, below the height of the window -- perhaps a hawk, but no, the wings are too gray, and the shape comes clear as a heron.
In the hollow, the water still puddles from thunderstorm. On the slope leading to it, where the two slopes meet, the grass lies where the current bore it, so that the blades look combed downhill.
Fall has come. When the goldfinches start from the coneflower seeds, a flock of half a dozen fly off.
The moon rises. Right by it, bright as a topaz, shines a star, like a setting of gems.
The rain made the mushrooms flourish. One set is all off white, enormous, with tops that rise up like cups rather than sink like caps.
Many trees are turning dingy, drab brown. Others are sandwiches: orange and yellow in the middle, with green to either side, or green in the center as the edges turn red and orange and gold.
The leaf, pale brown, sits in the middle of the road. Until startled by a walker, whereupon the mourning dove leaps up and flies off.
The asters grow thickly, if palely, this year. Great clouds of white faintly tinged with purple. The burning bush is already fading in the sunlight, the brilliant burning red that so swiftly turns a delicate pink, more spring-like than autumnal.
A wooly caterpillar books down the path. Not so swiftly than it can not be easily walked by, but distinctly swift, despite predicting a warm winter, given an enormous amber brown middle with the barest tips of black.
A little bird, ruddy brown, scuttles up to a patch of grass in the pavement. There it flips over and reveals itself a leaf.
Here, there, everywhere there are pines, the mushrooms grow like pale, enormous pegs, with perfectly flat tops.
A heron flaps along in flight, visible here and there through the tree tops as it traces the path over the stream.
Autumn arrives in force, with enormous flocks of small birds swirling through the air like clouds.
A pair of geese migrate, low over the trees, honking.
The rain goes with rainbows. I spot them four times. The last two were certainly the same: I glimpse a small, stout rainbow, from the cloud to the earth like a pillar, without visible arc. The other two were some distance apart, the glimpses, but both were grave arcs, high up into the sky.
Autumn is in full force: the autumnal crocuses bloom purple.
no subject
Date: 2023-10-22 10:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-10-22 11:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-10-22 02:40 pm (UTC)The moon rises, each night, half veiled by cloud
The moon hangs, a delicate crescent of gold
The moon rises, a sullen red, and gibbous
Fall has come
The moon rises
Also, I love-love-loved this:
A little bird, ruddy brown, scuttles up to a patch of grass in the pavement. There it flips over and reveals itself a leaf
I've experienced the exact same and thought how clever theses leaves and birds are, possessed of transformative powers like this.
no subject
Date: 2023-10-22 11:22 pm (UTC)