And when I woke up with the realization I had an extra hour, I looked outside to find the pavement black with fresh rain. I threw on my shoes and windbreaker and headed outside. The air is fresh and clean smelling with that hint of wet soil. The trail, the river, the sky are all yellow fallen and falling yellow leaves. The clouds hung on to the mountain tops like cotton candy clings to your fingers. The fallen leaves lined the trail making a thick yellow brick road. Beneath the trees, and above my head, a never ending stream of fat, yellow confetti twirls and falls to the ground. A thick yellow carpet beneath my feet muffles the sound of my shuffling footsteps. The dogs are jubilent and can not be contained. The river eddies are clogged with floating yellow leaves that remind me of one of my favorite MC Escher paintings (Three Worlds). My mind is filled with the words of one of my favorite Shakespearan Sonnets (73)
| That time of year thou mayst in me behold |
|
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang...
| That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, |
|
| Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. |
|
I have been outside twice a day every day for a week trying to take my fill of this season before the yellow leafy carpet is ground by our feet into the pavement into tiny flecks gold dust soon to be covered by a block of solid ice. I have a few mental visions in the library already tucked away for later reference. I feel like a starving woman trying to gorge myself at a feast. Deseprate to fill my senses with the warm yellow sensation of these days to last me the grey and white winter to come.
| 