I have always loved this time of year–there is an indefinable quality to the air or the light–or both–that seems so poignant to me. The drive along the Columbia River, toward Northport–for me that will always be the road home–turns spectacular during the autumn season, as the leaves turn every color from palest gold to brassiest orange to deepest crimson. The sight is breathtaking–each leaf seems to shimmer from within, as though lit by some other sun, in some internal universe.
There are birch trees in my front yard–or cottonwood. I’m not sure which. I do know this much–they are beautiful, with their sleek white trunks and dancing, coin-like green leaves, shimmering in every breeze. The sight always makes me think of the sequin-like bangles trimming the costumes of gypsies and bellydancers.
I probably shouldn’t drive much around this time of year. I’m too fascinated by the scenary to keep my eyes on the road.
And so, fall is here, whether the calendar agrees or not. It gets a person to thinking about cycles–this year’s flower and vegetables plants will eventually land in the compost bin, and return next year as food for new flowers, new tomatoes, new herbs…
In the words of Louis Armstrong, “And I think to myself, what a wonderful world…”