Plummer’s Hollow

A hard rain overnight has reduced the forest canopy to tatters. Where cherry leaves had hung, nothing but beads of water reflecting the sky.

Under gray skies, barely a breath of wind and the woods are alive with the commotion of falling leaves. I will cut my hair.

Rounding the corner of the house, I spot a reflection in my living room window and stop short: leaves of all colors. The change is upon us.

Mid-morning, and a weak sun sets the oaks aglow—orange, burgundy. Two archery hunters rustle past, incongruous in their green camouflage.

The first snow of the season blows sideways through the thinning woods. All the roofs are white, white—sudden colonies of the sky.

The French lilac, unseasonably green; Japanese barberries flaunting too-numerous fruit; me with my steaming Ethiopian brew, rain in my face.

The oaks are finally coloring up, and rattle instead of rustling in the wind. But no rain of acorns this autumn, few footfalls of deer.