The season has changed to grey

The past two weeks have brought wind, rain and cold that have stripped my place of vibrant fall colors. Rain was falling softly overhead, and the river was full, creeping up the bank towards the edge of the woods. All of the foliage has since been knocked off of the silver maples, leaving a tangle of dead grass and leaves on the ground above the silty riverbank. The area is preparing for winter- I could no longer hear songbirds or insects in the surrounding woods. A flock of geese flew overhead, honking and making a racket as they underwent their seasonal migration. Not all species are leaving or going dormant, however. The soft sandy soils left telltale signs that a deer had paid a visit to the spot I’m studying. I have yet to see the effects of a hard frost on the landscape, but I feel that will happen before my next visit.

An event map depicting my experience this week:

Deer prints in the shore:

I had the pleasant surprise of seeing a flock of geese fly overhead:

Here’s a video

It was a grey, dreary morning:

I’ve also composed a poem about my relationship with the seasonal changes my place has endured:

I’ve come to know a place

so close to the travelled path, yet

just out of sight


When I’m lucky

I find time to steal away from a turbulent life

down to this place by the river


Upon each arrival

it is the same

but different.

Every week or so brings a stark change to the land


To me, the change is


and sudden

yet I know this isn’t the case


The place is always changing,


I’m just not there to see it


Instead I am elsewhere,

removed from that place

wondering about the events unfolding in my absence

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