“Leaves will be falling soon. They’re not changing this year, just burning up and dropping to the ground. Too dry.”
He was leaning back in his chair at the center of a long table, eyes focused somewhere on the ceiling above him, speaking with an authority born from years of weather watching. He wasn’t mourning the leaves, or complaining about the dry: just stating the facts. The council had to decide when to send borough employees around to collect the fallen leaves, and it would be soon.
He brought himself back up, looked around the room. I saw a large bruise on his hand, close to transparent skin. He’s seen a lot of fall leaves falling through the years.
But the strange thing was that, as far as I can see, none of what he said was the case. It poured last night, with thunder and spectacular lightning, after three days of steady drizzle last week and two more days of rain coming tomorrow.
The hills are brilliant with color, reds and golds melding one into another, rising up to cloudless skies. Looking across the rooftops of the sloping town from my own front porch, I see color marching up the hills. Driving from one meeting after another I struggle to keep my eyes on the road, wish I’d left enough time to pull off for a picture.
A photographer at work caught a frame-worthy photo of a little white church lost in a sea of autumn colors, a picture that took my breathe.
The meeting moved on, to matters of parades and patching potholes, but I was still thinking of the leaves.
They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder; I guess that holds true for fall foliage, too.