My favorite color is October
O day of rest and gladness! O day of peace and light!
I did get to the early service, thus having the remainder of this bright blue and gold Sunday before me!
I could hardly wait to get out to the Carson River Park! But I sorta skipped the part where I am 92 years old and missing a good bit of the stamina I had in other days. I shoulda had a sandwich. But I set off, dark glasses on my wide open eyes, my camera at the ready!
The line of cottonwoods along the river were glittering gold in the distance, and the hot noonday sun, glinting off the dry fuzzy seedpods of the desert brush made dry bouquets everywhere. The wetlands is actually quite pathetic. The ponds have dried up...no bulrushes, no cattails, and alas! no raucous redwings and swooping swallows. I remember other October days, other wetter years, but each time it is different--different day, different light, and different me, and different impressions.
I trudge along, the trail dry dust beneath my feet. The water in the river dribbles along, casting weak reflections of the sky from its little lagoons. The cottonwood grove is ablaze with yellow doubloons, and the woodland floor shadowed with mottled light. The ambience of the grove is eternal in the presence of the old trees.
I did get to the early service, thus having the remainder of this bright blue and gold Sunday before me!
I could hardly wait to get out to the Carson River Park! But I sorta skipped the part where I am 92 years old and missing a good bit of the stamina I had in other days. I shoulda had a sandwich. But I set off, dark glasses on my wide open eyes, my camera at the ready!
The line of cottonwoods along the river were glittering gold in the distance, and the hot noonday sun, glinting off the dry fuzzy seedpods of the desert brush made dry bouquets everywhere. The wetlands is actually quite pathetic. The ponds have dried up...no bulrushes, no cattails, and alas! no raucous redwings and swooping swallows. I remember other October days, other wetter years, but each time it is different--different day, different light, and different me, and different impressions.
I trudge along, the trail dry dust beneath my feet. The water in the river dribbles along, casting weak reflections of the sky from its little lagoons. The cottonwood grove is ablaze with yellow doubloons, and the woodland floor shadowed with mottled light. The ambience of the grove is eternal in the presence of the old trees.
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