A change in the weather, a wetlands, birds and beasts and walking on clouds, as well as writing and writers, songwriting, and death. I think I covered it all...
It's soggy, and has been for a while, and will be for a while more. Not California soggy, which seems strange to say; they have their own troubles. Here in the PNW we have the slow slog kind of soggy, weeks and months of it, seemingly endless. I might be getting used to it, or maybe just resigned. I guess it's what I signed up for when I moved.
mid-autumn the carelessness of leaves -- Gregory Longnecker, tinywords.com Most front yards in my Portland neighborhood are a sea of leaves scattered helter skelter; mosaics in shades of ochres, browns, yellows and burgundies, arrayed in various sizes, shapes, and arrangements.
Our hazy 80 degree Augtober days are coming to an end. The rains march inexorably closer, and will put out fires, clear the air, and bring… what, I don't know. Naomi Shihab Nye says, “You are living in a poem.”
The neighborhood smells good these days, of green, of dust, of dying flowers, of cooler air and lower clouds. I walked into the woods on Rosh Hashanah to smell it even closer, to get that scent along with calls of birds, a few falling leaves, and filtered sunlight through the trees.
My feelings about the change of seasons haven't changed. The shift comes as an affront to my sensibilities. I seem to write this way every fall equinox. I'm always sad to bid goodbye to summer. I love the heat, the fewer clothes, the lush garden; the carefree part is a visceral memory of childhood. I'm still adjusting to the seasons here, and perhaps always will.
Every day this month has brought a new hint of the change of seasons, a firm farewell to summer, and a gradual lead up to the autumn equinox. Perhaps it's more like a wind down, a slowing of nature's pulse. The first leaves curl at the edges and our wood floors are cool under my … Continue reading Ode to the Garden
...here I am, still trying to make my peace with winter. I turn my back on the gray skies, annoyed, wondering when blue would win out, watching and hoping it would peek through, a ray of hope. I calculate outings for the best of weathers.
Wetter, wilder, wonderful, not yet winter... a few images of deep fall in the Pacific Northwest.
Getting ourselves back to the garden, almost able to touch Mt. Hood.