It truly is autumn today. Early November and the snow line creeps lower down the hillsides morning by morning. Skies are gray, mostly, though the sun bravely pokes through when it gets the chance. It rains most nights, and creek beds dried up in summer are filling with small ponds in low-lying spots. Trees have shed their leaves and their branches are skeletal against the sky. Birds’ nests, hidden all summer, are suddenly clearly seen, as barren and empty as the branches that support them, the chicks grown and departed. On the ground, however, is a glorious riot of oranges, reds, yellows, and shiny browns, crunching underfoot and letting loose the damp-autumn-leaf scents that awaken happy memories of autumns past.
In the wild woods on the east end of Lion’s Park, someone has been hacking away at the underbrush. Daylight rushes into places that have been dark and tangled for a long time. Dead brush lies scattered on the ground; hopefully whoever chopped it down will have the foresight to return and remove it before summer dryness returns and a carelessly tossed spark from a cigarette, or from a transient’s campfire, starts a wildfire. Perhaps a letter to the public works department is in order.