Call it a tempest in a teapot; or at least a maelstrom of changing seasons seemed to be swirling around my Chapman Ridge home.
In nature, change is constant; as Greek philosopher Heraclites once said, “Everything moves, everything flows.”
After a rain, late one day last week, I walked out the ridgeline. The autumn brilliance had faded. There were a few gold and red and burgundy leaves; but earth tones—cinnamon, rust, terra cotta, chocolate and Melba toast tan—were now the color scheme of the day. The hillside looked like someone had left the molasses-rich Boston brown bread in the can a bit too long. Autumn was slipping away with leaves falling by the basketsful.
A carpet of brown covered le sous-bois.
|As the French say le sous-bois, the forest floor.|