Yes, Virginia, there is a sun shining!

Today has been a classically beautiful Autumn day. The breeze has been vigorous enough that we held off on expunging leaves from the driveway. Maybe tomorrow, after we've run the mower deck over the fallen leaves on the grass, to help mulch them and enrich the soil.

coppery oak leaves

Photo by J. Harrington

Here, late in life, we're finally starting to adjust to the idea that some chores are never "done," they're just part of living. Around here buckthorn removal and leaf management seem to be continuous elements for three seasons of our country living. Winter swaps snow and ice management for leaves and buckthorn, and the beat goes on!

brassy, bronze, and coppery oak leaves

Photo by J. Harrington

Many of our trees are oaks of various species, including burr, white and red. Each of them seems determined to hold some portion of their leaves throughout the Winter and into early Spring. This trait is known as marescence and, although we've found speculation on the possible evolutionary advantage it may offer, we've yet to find anything that seemed determinative. One final observation for the day: we've observed that oaks, more so than other tree species, have leaves that turn metallic colors in Autumn. In particular, we see brass, bronze and copper hues on our oaks.

Black Oaks

by Mary Oliver

Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary,

or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance
and comfort.

Not one can manage a single sound though the blue jays
carp and whistle all day in the branches, without
the push of the wind.

But to tell the truth after a while I'm pale with longing
for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen

and you can't keep me from the woods, from the tonnage

of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.

Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a
little sunshine, a little rain.

Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from
one boot to another -- why don't you get going?

For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists
of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money,

I don't even want to come in out of the rain.

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