Just the day before the leaves were golden and crunchy and dry.  And I loved it.

There is something very satisfying about a brisk morning walk.  The sun is low, and if you leave on time, the sky never fails to provide a quick glimmer of glory before it settles into its more familiar daily attire.  The day before, walking along in my new hiking boots, I had to pick my feet up, because, being new, there were no worn-down-outside-edges on the heels.  So, all the encouragement I needed for a more martial pace through piles and piles of dry crunchy Sycamore leaves piled up on the edges of the sidewalks and curbs.

This day there is a mist in the air, and a faint drizzle is all that is left of an overnight rain.  All the leaves are damp, a rich brown and leathery, lovely in an entirely different way.   I watch an enormous Sycamore leaf drift down twenty feet or more, silently land in a pool of rain, catch the trickle of a current and sail down the street to rest in a heap with other damp leaves.

Tomorrow they’ll be dry again.

I love leaves!

I love this classic Autumn poem by Emily Bronte:

Fall Leaves Fall,

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.

I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.

I’ll leave you with this recording of George Winston playing Longing/Love from his recording “Autumn.”