The weather watchers had predicted frost for this morning, so yesterday afternoon we brought our few vulnerable plants inside. But as dawn comes over the hill, from the perspective of my deskside window, I don't see any evidence of a silver-white glaze on the grass. Of course that could still occur should we drop another degree or so before actual sunrise. Fog along the river—which was only a slight wispiness a minute or two ago—is, however, becoming noticeably thicker.
* * *Okay. I've just stepped outside for quick reconnoiter, to make sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing…or in this case, not seeing. And I was right: no frost. But plenty cold. Too cold to remain out long in only a short-sleeves teeshirt and no jacket. I made a quick upriver snap, then hustled back inside.
As you can see, there's still not a lot of color, other than an increase in the rusty yellows and jaundiced browns—which is the usual autumnal dress for the leaning sycamores which dominate the riverbanks. Other than a spiraling scarlet flame of high-vining Virginia creeper, there's generally not much red to be seen here along the stream. For dominate reds, you have to go uphill, up the road, where there are maples and sassafras and sweetgums.
But fall is definitely here. We had our first hearthfire of the season yesterday evening—and it felt good. Time moves steadily along…