Autumn Leaves
Autumn leaves us nostalgic on the one hand and downright pensive on the other. It's like saying goodbye to all the lazy hazy days of relaxed living and anticipating the oncoming days of winter-challenged cares.
Still, it's also a time of appreciation for the four seasons that so resonate in our northern climate. One season grinding inexorably into the other. It's a seamless blend when spring slides into summer, but when summer looses its grip into fall, then fall into winter the ride seems a whole lot rougher.
Autumn is a time of memories renascent, a time of recalling other years of summer receding and fall ascendant, then finally the onslaught of winter. It's a bitter-sweet time.
Autumn is a splendid season redolent of both memories anchored in childhood and adulthood, with their disparate apprehensions of change, brought forward by the fragrant reminders of acrid leaves tumbling kaleidoscopically onto the receiving earth, so recently warmed by the summer sun, now slicked by constant rain.
The warmth of the sun is becoming the stuff of memories, too. This season translates into a dearth of sun, an abundance of rain and wind, and cooler, much cooler temperatures. There is no mistaking the season. It smells like Autumn, it sounds like Autumn, it looks like Autumn.
There's a different patter to the Autumn rain than rain in summer; different odours are evoked and enhanced, and the overall pattern of the colour palette is definitely that of Autumn.
The trees whisper excitedly to one another conspiratorially, the fall wind urging them to draw their heads together conspiratorially; winter is on the way, loose those leaves! The leaves, rustling in the wind, complain bitterly that they're not quite prepared yet to depart.
Even little Riley reacts to the absence of sun and warmth. He shivers uncontrollably, constantly, and needs to be protected against the rawness of the season. Hence he too wears a coat when we venture out, unlike Button, with her thicker, tougher haircoat.
To him the protective covering over his small body is a necessity; to her it is a threat to her dignity; unneeded and dreaded until that time when the cold becomes sufficiently insistent that she too must be clothed against its dreaded stealth.
We venture into the ravine, after yet another overnight and through-to-the-morning rain. The sun, in concert with the clouds, plays games with us, taunting us, occasionally permitting us to catch a glimpse of its brilliance, then quickly hides again.
Still, it's also a time of appreciation for the four seasons that so resonate in our northern climate. One season grinding inexorably into the other. It's a seamless blend when spring slides into summer, but when summer looses its grip into fall, then fall into winter the ride seems a whole lot rougher.
Autumn is a time of memories renascent, a time of recalling other years of summer receding and fall ascendant, then finally the onslaught of winter. It's a bitter-sweet time.
Autumn is a splendid season redolent of both memories anchored in childhood and adulthood, with their disparate apprehensions of change, brought forward by the fragrant reminders of acrid leaves tumbling kaleidoscopically onto the receiving earth, so recently warmed by the summer sun, now slicked by constant rain.
The warmth of the sun is becoming the stuff of memories, too. This season translates into a dearth of sun, an abundance of rain and wind, and cooler, much cooler temperatures. There is no mistaking the season. It smells like Autumn, it sounds like Autumn, it looks like Autumn.
There's a different patter to the Autumn rain than rain in summer; different odours are evoked and enhanced, and the overall pattern of the colour palette is definitely that of Autumn.
The trees whisper excitedly to one another conspiratorially, the fall wind urging them to draw their heads together conspiratorially; winter is on the way, loose those leaves! The leaves, rustling in the wind, complain bitterly that they're not quite prepared yet to depart.
Even little Riley reacts to the absence of sun and warmth. He shivers uncontrollably, constantly, and needs to be protected against the rawness of the season. Hence he too wears a coat when we venture out, unlike Button, with her thicker, tougher haircoat.
To him the protective covering over his small body is a necessity; to her it is a threat to her dignity; unneeded and dreaded until that time when the cold becomes sufficiently insistent that she too must be clothed against its dreaded stealth.
We venture into the ravine, after yet another overnight and through-to-the-morning rain. The sun, in concert with the clouds, plays games with us, taunting us, occasionally permitting us to catch a glimpse of its brilliance, then quickly hides again.
Labels: Perambulations
posted by Pieface @ 5:21 PM
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