When fall is good, it is very good.The sky is tryptophan blue, the sort of blue written about in books and spoken of in legends and faerie tales. It is gist for clichés, a color only children or the old can appreciate since children are not yet jaded and the old take nothing for granted. Coming on the cusp of winter, fall makes elders of us all.
Leaves churn in a wind accompanied by the rustle of chimes. The reclusive sun hides behind a tiny archipelago of clouds and yet the clouds are not greater than the sun, they are merely nearer to us, or we nearer to them. They are like ships sailing through the blue. The trees have lost none of their green and carry the sheen of recent rains; their leaves are like dapplegängers of white and dark, mini-repositories of sun and shade.
Dramatically if noiselessly the sun roists from the ship-like islands and dancing tree branches sprinkle the exultant into a thousand refracted pieces, changing the grass into a quilt of multi-hue'd greens.
Now a cloud like Ireland appears, Éire with her familiar canine profile, and I spot Cork and Connemara, Dublin and Sligo, Wexford and Donegal as she slides quickly north, higher into that broad Atlantic.
How fast she moves!
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