Somehow the colors of October are never as bright in real life as they appear in bank-issued calendars and in the lens of memory. Yellows, mostly. Some burnt shades of orange. Some rare reds. But mostly they're russets and browns, which are nice in their own right. But they're not the brilliant colors that I always expect.
I haven't been to the woods in so long. Life keeps getting in the way. We spent the second week of October in Arizona, which is a beautiful place--far more striking than this place--but it felt like such a waste of a good October week to spend it outside the Northeast.
I'm missing the woods bad. But I'll tell you what's almost as good as a hike: being home alone in the middle of the day, with the October world all gray and gold outside the old windows, sad Renaissance lute music playing on Pandora, a cup of strong coffee, and a well written book--one of those prose books that sings like pure poetry.
No comments:
Post a Comment