|Nine in the morning. No biking for me that day.|
|The great circle of Cottonwoods in the Parc Lafontaine.|
|Coming alive in the descending light.|
|Small, whispering flocks of leaves gathering up in the Red Oak crown.|
|They are so silky that you can't help caressing your cheek with them.|
Gingko trees are shedding at last their golden fans, sending them a-fluttering to the soft ground.
|I could stare at this for hours (were it not so brief) and loose myself in it, gladly.|
Sunset is early and cold - but it lights up a revealing théâtre d'ombres right in front of you, a silent play brimming with stories, waiting for you to embark.
Andrew Wyeth states: “I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure in the landscape – the loneliness of it – the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it – the whole story doesn’t show.”
|Watercolour (and quote) from The Helga Pictures: Cape Coat, p. 182.|
This perpetual entertainment from mother Nature, that we somehow expect to go on indefinitely, is off for a month (or more). That’s right, folks, we’re taking a vacation.
November means: You can let these golden leaves fall down, we are preparing you for new buds, new flowers, new leaves. And new sprigs, because you’ll be slightly bigger. With a slightly different shape (who knows what it will be?)
|Can you see, along this majestic branch, the tiny pearls in waiting?|
|Does this look like November? I'm not sure.|
Staying warm in colourful layers, sketching dreamily, cooking squash in the oven, being gentle on myself, venturing outside with a thermos of fresh ginger tea in my packsack, and looking around at the bare shapes of my wooden friends (in the company of determined woodpeckers and busy chickadees): this is my favourite November mood.