little girl waiting with her dad to watch the train go by, running through the leaves over and over again just to make them rustle.
I would capture and preserve this particular combination of sunlight and breeze.
…over fallen acorns, dusky brrrrr of cicadas from above, goldenrod waving in the wind.
My mother has a lovely hand-painted floral on blue glass bowl that would have perfectly complemented the Cranberry Relish I made… Unfortunately for documentation purposes, I got so caught up in the festivities prep that I did little process photography.
Regardless, it all went swimmingly, and we enjoyed a warm and bright holiday with the feller’s family chez nous this year, both an honor and a treat.
overlong falsely inflated, the thermometer at last takes a seasonal plunge. that fickle friend the tshirt sun that’s lingered, luring us to display ourselves to a wide-open sky, beats a sudden exit in a shower of red and gold. last luminous leaves shudder thinly, pinned to black branches, etched vivid against a slate sky. both the dog with his trivial fur even I with my excess girth grown round my middle through months of dolor, learn to bundle ourselves better for morning walks through a landscape that could pass for postapocalyptic. the time of year when raising the shades renders little shine, only grey light cast overall. we turn to yellow lamps and fleecy throws, huddle ourselves around cups of tea, run endless streams of steam to soak in, and nurse the potted greenery with draughts of tapwater against the want.
I’m liking the look of things, the halloween colors, bright orange leaves, black branches. even the cold-gleaming wet sidewalks.
it does get tough when the skies hang low and grey– too many clouds to know all the names– strange ones pendulous as solid gigantic fruit suspended in air. or wispy spun drifts of vapor. my scribbled notebook, mainly garbage but with the occasional glint, exclaims over a single such airborne traveler. they’re what’s on my mind, some days.
then partly sunny, color leaps to the eye and helps resuscitate the grey-wearied mind.
a bumpy ride on the chicago streets these days– potholes, of one kind and another. everyone loves having something to complain of, but too much ready plaint a wet blanket in cold weather.