DAY 29

I think of late fall as having muted colors. Most of the tree show is over, many plants and animals are hunkering down for winter.

So when I decided to pull some miscellaneous images together to form a color and texture palette, I was surprised by the range of hues.

DAY 28

Sparkle berries.

Late season crabapples that were particularly beautiful in the sun today.

DAY 27

 Last hurrahs.

I was actually looking for something else when I spied these hiding under some bushes. 

Wild strawberries  (fragaria Virginiana)

From the book Stalking the Wild Dandelion:

Earls, dukes, princes, and marquises used the common strawberry's beautifully-shaped 3-parted, evenly-toothed compound leaves as emblems on their crowns.

DAY 26

Saw a magnificent red tailed hawk circle around and then land on a powerline. As I waited for him to take off again, the first two lines of Yeats' The Second Coming kept running through my head.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer*

When I looked up red tailed hawks I discovered that the average wing span is 48". It's simultaneously thrilling and chilling to watch something that large soar overhead.


[*Here's the rest in case you hate to have half of
something stuck in your head the way I do]


The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

DAY 25

A squirrel's home is his . . .
pile of leaves, apparently.

I hadn't thought a lot about where squirrels live until the winds denuded the trees this year. Suddenly all these nests were visible along the trail.

Curious, I looked up the makings of a typical nest. It's more elaborate than I initially gave them credit for. They are multi-layered for warmth and weather protection, and they're lined with moss because newborn squirrels are very delicate.

DAY 24

I don't want to rush the seasons, but these festive lights surrounding the roundabout in Uptown Normal are very cool.

DAY 23

A cool day following a rainy spell is a bonanza to a moss hunter. Or bryologist*, if you prefer.

Although really, every day is a good day if you love moss.


[*This would take into account your liverworts and hornworts, as well]