Tuesday, 4 December 2012

Leaf fire

I was awake early today, watching the sky rise into a cold blue, watching trees and buildings emerge from misty greys, gradually seeing more definition in the big forms, noticing which branches hold the last few leaves and the ones that already show new buds in the inky scribble of twig chaos.

Swoops from small shrieking birds arc across the garden, fall out of evergreens. Those last few golden leaves that seem to thread a branch like small upturned hands, shimmer as the birds glance by. I see just the lines at first, as if my eyes need to catch up with those morning dives. That new seed I put in the feeder is a bit of a hit.

In the kitchen, I brushed past the corn leaves that are still sitting on a tray. Back in this post in October, I talked about doing something or other with them. What that was seems to have blown right away from me. I brush past these long arms of leaves every day, except today they fell and swayed to the floor, sounding so light, sounding so dry, sounding like they might shatter into fragments when you pick them up. In the half light, I could see how the colours have faded back. None of the yellows and pinky reds that I so loved, none of the shine on smooth spines. They've faded back to brittle brown paper, aged by a month indoors. I think they'll have to go into the compost bin.

I took some shots of plane leaves in the park and cemetery, colours like in the shot above and here, before all the rich colours got blown away by last week's storms. Colours like leaf fire, before the days seemed to suddenly be too short.

And I just found the most wonderful and enchanting post by Linda Cracknell which made me laugh out loud here.