rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Today brought splendid skies. First there were sweeps of cirrus clouds, and later great swaths of overcast made brilliant by sunlight piercing it. With evening came cumulus— white billows and gray undersides catching the last light, flushing with pink and mauve at sunset. But as splendid as the sky was, the trees that have finally begun changing color in earnest were at least as good. The dogwoods across the street are deep red, and have as yet lost very few leaves. Other trees are gold with bright red crowns, and the walnut in my back yard is contributing some yellow, though most of it remains green even now.

The mulberry, of course, refuses to change. It will probably stay green for some time yet, turning yellow only when the trees with which it would otherwise have to compete have gone nearly bare. The mulberry likes to get all the attention, and is willing to wait to get it. Then it drops its fat, dead leaves during the often damp and always chilly days of December and January, when raking them is most onerous. If it were not for the time it would take for some other tree to grow large enough to replace the mulberry's shade, I'd have it removed. Summer is the tool the mulberry uses to thwart my better judgment.

But summer won't be back for a while. Though it was balmy today, the clouds presage a cooling trend, and there could be rain by Wednesday. The colorful leaves bespeak the colder nights that now prevail. I've had to haul out a thicker blanket, and it won't be long before I'll be needing two. The nights of soup are upon us. In fact I think I'll have some now, as I haven't planned anything for dinner, and there's a bread roll going stale that will serve as perfect garlic toast. The temperature will dip into the forties tonight. I only hope the warm soup and cozy blanket don't put me to sleep before nine o'clock, when the English people begin murdering one another on television.

Did I mention I love autumn?

Sunday Verse


by Joel Toledo

What more difficult burden than this,
the bird's singing outside my room
this midnight? The sharp melody,
sweet and dark,
darkness slicing darkness.

He never rests. Night after night
the lilting sound grows louder,
longer. Now I think of opening the window
to see the outside covered with sound,
as if nothing else exists but birdsong
and dark, one and the same,
the bird is the dark.

Night after night, I am tempted
to step out and be part of this union
of bird and dark. But I fear it terribly.
For definition is the task of day,
where light makes things easy,
like the walk to the great perching tree,
where the bird should be,
but never is.


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