November colors are different from the more famous and splendid colors you’ll see at the peak of the autumn season when the trees are flush. November colors are more faded, muted. Many of the trees are now bare, although a few leaves do manage to hang on to the cold, dark, limbs of a few of the chosen.
Perhaps there is even an impending storm in the distance, harbinger of deep powder snows in the high country and heavy, wet, snows on the plains.
The landscape is in its annual transition from life to death–or at least in its cyclical move to a state of suspended animation, hibernation, and static Rip Van Winkle slumber. There is a nostalgia in the air of events and friends gone by. The Sun is low, the shadows long.
Yes, the promise of another coming spring, a new beginning, seems as distant as the unseen comet.
The sunset hangs on a cloud;
A golden storm of glittering sheaves,
Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves,
The wild wind blows in a cloud.Hark to a voice that is calling
To my heart in the voice of the wind:
My heart is weary and sad and alone,
For its dreams like the fluttering leaves have gone,
And why should I stay behind?
A Sawhill Pond November, #7. Boulder, Colorado, 2015
A Sawhill Pond November, #9. Boulder, Colorado, 2015
A Sawhill Pond November, #12. Boulder, Colorado, 2015
A Sawhill Pond November, #13. Boulder, Colorado, 2015
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