It’s cold now in the early morning. The crimson reds and brilliant yellows have mellowed to rust and burnished gold. The ground is a carpet of leaves and creamy sycamores and stark white birches stand out against the dark trunks of oaks and maples.
The summertime runners and bikers have taken their fitness endeavors indoors and the trail is quiet. We can stand for long uninterrupted stretches watching the birds. They are still busy in the woods and fields but the tenor of their songs is different. Urgent and earnest with none of the springtime frivolity. They move in flocks, picking berries and seeds. They seem to me like residents of a northern isle or a fair weather resort town when the tourists have gone and cold weather is coming.
Afternoon sun is still warm, but the days are shorter. Mornings are crisp and frosty. We all feel in our bones the turning of the season. Somehow the impending cold and quiet make these fall days all the more precious and beautiful.
