Breezes
I felt well enough--after much coffee and Thera-Flu--to make a run into town this afternoon to pick up some groceries and check the mail. The sense of autumn has grown stronger since I last was out in the world.
Under scattered clouds, the steel-blue sea crinkled like foil in the face of the brisk southwesterly breeze. The windward side of the Spit was white with froth and the sunken shoals off-shore revealed their presence by the breaking swells. The brisk air held just a hint of the chill that is promised.
Today it really feels like Fall.
The hills behind town are a mix of dark spruce green and the yellow-orange of the alders, climbing up to the meadows that mark the ridgeline. From a distance, the fields of fireweed are dark red. They have all gone to cotton--the tops tinseled with the burst seed pods, the last clusters of cotton clinging to them like the memory of the state fair. The leaves have been burnt red from the frost. Even in death, the plant is beautiful.
Under scattered clouds, the steel-blue sea crinkled like foil in the face of the brisk southwesterly breeze. The windward side of the Spit was white with froth and the sunken shoals off-shore revealed their presence by the breaking swells. The brisk air held just a hint of the chill that is promised.
Today it really feels like Fall.
The hills behind town are a mix of dark spruce green and the yellow-orange of the alders, climbing up to the meadows that mark the ridgeline. From a distance, the fields of fireweed are dark red. They have all gone to cotton--the tops tinseled with the burst seed pods, the last clusters of cotton clinging to them like the memory of the state fair. The leaves have been burnt red from the frost. Even in death, the plant is beautiful.
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