Fall

It was 36 degrees this morning, but later warmed to about 75. Fall is in the air! I spent a little time photographing in the back yard this morning. 

Squirrels are burying the acorns from my oak tree and plants are transitioning to their winter attire.  Being outside reminded me of a poem by Mary Oliver, one of my favorite poets. 


Song for Autumn

In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think

of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.