All this and syrup too! #phenology

The surrealistic first stanza of Dylan's fantastic My Back Pages could nicely describe a walk along our country road today.

Crimson flames tied through my ears
Rollin’ high and mighty traps
Pounced with fire on flaming roads
Using ideas as my maps
“We’ll meet on edges, soon,” said I
Proud ’neath heated brow
Ah, but I was so much older then
I’m younger than that now

Maple leaves are in florescent flames of tiger and pineapple. Oaks in spice, sangria and scarlet. If you disagree with these choices, select your own at the color thesaurus. “I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.” exclaimed Anne of Green Gables. We concur, heartily.

roadside maple in Autumn

Photo by J. Harrington

The maples in front of the house have, in the past day or two, turned chartreuse and tangerine. The maple on the ridge behind the house is brilliant crimson. Over the next week or two, much of this beauty and vibrancy will be gone. Isn't it important to enjoy what we have while it's here?

Fall

Edward Hirsch, 1950

Fall, falling, fallen. That’s the way the season 
Changes its tense in the long-haired maples 
That dot the road; the veiny hand-shaped leaves 
Redden on their branches (in a fiery competition 
With the final remaining cardinals) and then 
Begin to sidle and float through the air, at last 
Settling into colorful layers carpeting the ground. 
At twilight the light, too, is layered in the trees 
In a season of odd, dusky congruences—a scarlet tanager
And the odor of burning leaves, a golden retriever 
Loping down the center of a wide street and the sun 
Setting behind smoke-filled trees in the distance, 
A gap opening up in the treetops and a bruised cloud 
Blamelessly filling the space with purples. Everything 
Changes and moves in the split second between summer’s 
Sprawling past and winter’s hard revision, one moment 
Pulling out of the station according to schedule, 
Another moment arriving on the next platform. It 
Happens almost like clockwork: the leaves drift away 
From their branches and gather slowly at our feet, 
Sliding over our ankles, and the season begins moving 
Around us even as its colorful weather moves us, 
Even as it pulls us into its dusty, twilit pockets. 
And every year there is a brief, startling moment 
When we pause in the middle of a long walk home and 
Suddenly feel something invisible and weightless 
Touching our shoulders, sweeping down from the air: 
It is the autumn wind pressing against our bodies; 
It is the changing light of fall falling on us.