Autumn

Autumn's here! Now don't get me wrong... I love summer and her long, hot days. Of running barefoot through freshly mowed grass and of being so hot, my clothes stick to my skin like honeyed molasses. But. I'm always happy when the season changes and fall moves in with her fiery rainbow of light.

Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns. ~George Eliot

From last year's autumn, a lovely bush that grows beneath my front windows.


I have three trees in my front yard & about twelve in my backyard. This one is the second biggest. All of the trees are filled with birds' nests. In fact, I had an owl hunting in my trees two years ago. Did you know owls bark like dogs? I sat outside, late at night, many times, with camera in hand trying to capture her on film without success. Though I heard her, I never saw her. My brother-in-law did see her one night. She swooped out of the tree, with a sparrow in her mouth and flew about three feet above his head.


These gorgeous trees are at the local park.


Fallen log with fallen leaves! I love the crackle of leaves as you walk through them.


When I started to look through my photo archives, I was surprised to find that I hardly have any photos of fall. So this year, I plan on taking TONS of autumnal pictures.

Autumn
By Alice Cary 1820–1871

Shorter and shorter now the twilight clips
The days, as through the sunset gates they crowd,
And Summer from her golden collar slips
And strays through stubble-fields, and moans aloud,

Save when by fits the warmer air deceives,
And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower,
She lies on pillows of the yellow leaves,
And tries the old tunes over for an hour.

The wind, whose tender whisper in the May
Set all the young blooms listening through th’ grove,
Sits rustling in the faded boughs to-day
And makes his cold and unsuccessful love.

The rose has taken off her tire of red—
The mullein-stalk its yellow stars have lost,
And the proud meadow-pink hangs down her head
Against earth’s chilly bosom, witched with frost.

The robin, that was busy all the June,
Before the sun had kissed the topmost bough,
Catching our hearts up in his golden tune,
Has given place to the brown cricket now.

The very cock crows lonesomely at morn—
Each flag and fern the shrinking stream divides—
Uneasy cattle low, and lambs forlorn
Creep to their strawy sheds with nettled sides.

Shut up the door: who loves me must not look
Upon the withered world, but haste to bring
His lighted candle, and his story-book,
And live with me the poetry of Spring.

Thanks for stopping by!