Saturday morning, going on ten o'clock, the sun is shining bright, it's 58˚F and heading for an 80˚ high. The river is low and clear, a slow-moving mirror that reflects the blue sky overhead and the patchwork progression of autumn along its banks.
Seasonal color has finally started to show its stuff streamside. Mostly yellows, oranges, and golds, and the pale, washed-out reds—almost pinks—of the Virginia creeper which twines up the boles of the big sycamore leaning over the pools. During the next few days I expect their red will darken, intensify, becoming a deep crimson. Unfortunately, there are no red maples hereabouts to punctuate the otherwise warmly burnished landscape with their vivid scarlet flame.
Today's agenda includes several necessary shopping errands, chores around the cottage, and somewhere in there time for a walk in the woods with Myladylove. Maybe we'll put a hunk of rat cheese, some smoked sausage, a few apples, and a bar of dark chocolate in a pack and make it a picnic.