Most of the trees with bright color have now shed themselves of their autumn garb. The oaks are, of course, still clinging to their golden brown lace, and the mulberry still screens my window with its two-tone display of green and yellow. In fact, I have a suspicion that the mulberry transports extra leaves hither from another dimension, else how can I account for the thick robe lain daily at its feet, while its branches are yet as lush with leaves as ever? The mulberry is no suburban strip-mall stripper. Its dance of the seven veils will last well into December.
Today, the forest was drenched with chilly sunlight, and I could see the shining tops of clouds that covered the valley. The recent storm is gone, and has left the winter pattern in its wake. Now come the months when the bright mountains rise like an island from those fogs which keep the lowlands shadowy and gray. Some days I will gloat, and other days I will be envious, and wish that I could descend into that foggy world. I seldom have the time to go there, so I will wait for those rare nights when the clouds creep upward with dusk and enshroud the forest. But that won't be tonight, I think. An ordinary night ahead, I'd say, filled with the sound of fat mulberry leaves dropping to the lawn- from another dimension.