marycatelli (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
marycatelli) wrote2025-02-18 11:27 pm
marycatelli) wrote2025-02-18 11:27 pm
Entry tags:
falling into winter
The honking comes first, though muffled by height. Geese fly across the evening sky. Two pairs are flying before the bulk of the skein, each of them flying as if the two were part of a V, but not even near each other. Behind, the geese shift and shuffling, for a time forming a line of birds flying in a file, side by side, but they sort themselves out, and even the pairs join up to form a single lengthy line. Then they file into the sunset sky, and they are dark shadows, except their breast feathers catch the sun as brilliant as foil, flashing against their dark forms as they fly onward.
Truly praying mantises have protective appearance. One sits on the concrete of the driveway and only careful inspection determines that it is not indeed a bit of greenery.
Fall has come. Autumnal crocuses are blooming in violet.
The impatiens in the east garden only look a little sad but a garden on the way to church has all its impatiens collapsed, their leaves looking already rotten, the way they do as soon as frost touches them.
A tree suffered from the cold. The vivid orange leaves are only below, sheltered, where the topmost leaves on many branches are drab where the cold drained them.
A brown shape, silhouetted by sunlight, sits, dark, on the walkway. It could be a quite twisted leaf, or a chipmunk. It comes into clear view only moments before it glances over and runs off.
A bird flies into the wind and mostly goes sideways.
The stand of leafless trees has an understory of brush that is now more vivid than ever with the leaves turning brilliantly yellow. Along the rest of the road, the oaks are thickly covered with leaves, in brown, in dark copper, in deep scarlet.
The large bird flies, too high in the sky for any reference to indicate how large it is. It turns, and the undersides of its wings are too pale for it to be a raven -- perhaps.
What draws my eye, I do not know, but I picked out the black cat. It sits under the overhang, watching me with its pale, pale green eyes, its head tracking me. I glance back when past it, and it is looking down its back toward me still.
The leafless November bushes let the lake behind be seen, still and silver.
The day is gray, mist everywhere about the drab and leafless trees with bark in grays and drab browns, with sober greens here and there in evergreens, and oaks with leaves every rich shade of brown with red and orange, and branches with red berries or branches already ready for spring the day before snow begins.
A hawk sits on the post of the guardrail, its back brown, its front cream, its head as stern as a judge.
The day shifts between gray and sunlit, and once the sunlit air drew the eye, to see snow falling through it like a swarm of bees through the light, and all the pavement yet dry.
On a bare sapling, of few branches, a hawk perches, looking rather sullen.
Gray flapped, visible out of the corner of my eye, and a glance reveals a low-flying heron, barely higher than automobiles, plugging along through the air.
After the freezing rain, in the bright but blustery day, a bush rattles like a macarena.
Truly praying mantises have protective appearance. One sits on the concrete of the driveway and only careful inspection determines that it is not indeed a bit of greenery.
Fall has come. Autumnal crocuses are blooming in violet.
The impatiens in the east garden only look a little sad but a garden on the way to church has all its impatiens collapsed, their leaves looking already rotten, the way they do as soon as frost touches them.
A tree suffered from the cold. The vivid orange leaves are only below, sheltered, where the topmost leaves on many branches are drab where the cold drained them.
A brown shape, silhouetted by sunlight, sits, dark, on the walkway. It could be a quite twisted leaf, or a chipmunk. It comes into clear view only moments before it glances over and runs off.
A bird flies into the wind and mostly goes sideways.
The stand of leafless trees has an understory of brush that is now more vivid than ever with the leaves turning brilliantly yellow. Along the rest of the road, the oaks are thickly covered with leaves, in brown, in dark copper, in deep scarlet.
The large bird flies, too high in the sky for any reference to indicate how large it is. It turns, and the undersides of its wings are too pale for it to be a raven -- perhaps.
What draws my eye, I do not know, but I picked out the black cat. It sits under the overhang, watching me with its pale, pale green eyes, its head tracking me. I glance back when past it, and it is looking down its back toward me still.
The leafless November bushes let the lake behind be seen, still and silver.
The day is gray, mist everywhere about the drab and leafless trees with bark in grays and drab browns, with sober greens here and there in evergreens, and oaks with leaves every rich shade of brown with red and orange, and branches with red berries or branches already ready for spring the day before snow begins.
A hawk sits on the post of the guardrail, its back brown, its front cream, its head as stern as a judge.
The day shifts between gray and sunlit, and once the sunlit air drew the eye, to see snow falling through it like a swarm of bees through the light, and all the pavement yet dry.
On a bare sapling, of few branches, a hawk perches, looking rather sullen.
Gray flapped, visible out of the corner of my eye, and a glance reveals a low-flying heron, barely higher than automobiles, plugging along through the air.
After the freezing rain, in the bright but blustery day, a bush rattles like a macarena.