It is fall in New England.
Although it is NOT New England, as natives are wont to remind me. This is New York State, and it will never be New England. But still, it is the Northeast Corridor, and whenever fall arrives, it reminds me vividly of home. And it feels, for a moment, like New England.
Crisp air and a strong breeze, brushing by the leaves of the trees and moving them at its whim. A tumultous riot of color brightens the landscape, with rid reds and golds, sharp oranges, and brilliant scarlet outlining yellow leaves.
I love this time of year. I love fall colors. The depth, the shock of the color, yet nature does not resort to flourescence. Some of the reds have a purplish edge like a drop of blood welling from a pinprick wound.
This morning it was foggy, but in small places. I drove down Bloominggrove, and as I approached the light a line of fog stretched across the field to my left, then across the road, like a shimmering barrier between me and route 4. The light changed, and I pulled forward, stopping as the light turned red once more. I was caught there, in what seemed a small surreal pocket of whispy clouds all around me. I could see clarity before me and behind me, yet my world for the moment was trapped in something not quite there. And then the light changed again, and I drove on.Posted by Deb Atwood at October 14, 2003 11:14 AM | TrackBack