The "Last" Nice Day Before Winter

When I woke up the other day, I was surprised by the bright sunlight shining through my window. It has been stormy and grey for a few weeks, and when it is bright, it is bitterly cold. This is so typical of November that I didn't really think too much about it, except to hate it, and to hunker down until Spring.

However, this day was strangly balmy for November, with warm winds, and crystal clear sunshine. I knew that it wouldn't last long, so after I finished my work for the day, I went on a walk. I have been saying to myself that this will be the last nice day of the year for a month now, but I think with Thanksgiving a week away, it must surely be the last nice day.

When I go for a walk, I always take with me a book, my journal, a pen and my camera. You never know when an idea will present itself, if you'll run across something interesting, weird, beautiful or all three. Whenever I wait to write about something until I get home, the raw power of the thought is already diluted, with other thoughts, passing scenes, reminders of other issues at home or at work. When I'm walking, my mind is free to flit from image to image, and I can stop to sketch, with images or words, to preserve whatever emotion or thought is created.

I am a lucky person able to steal away some time today. With the time change, it's past sundown by the time the work day is finished and that makes the nice days more precious. I am out during the afternoon, and by four the sun is setting. When the sun leaves, so does it's warmth, and the winds that were warm turn bitter again. The lines of cars with their headlights on start to swarm intersections, each person cocooned in their metal traps, trying to get somewhere faster than their companions on the road, thinking about work, groceries, projects, children, parents, problems. Rarely do they consider the other metal traps as anything other than obstacles, because metal does not have hopes and dreams, families, problems. It is hard for the walker to feel anything but pity for the trapped people, trapped alone in metal pods, not connecting to anyone else. Why connect with the fellow machine operators, when within a block they and their machine will be gone and forgotten. When you walk, it is impossible not to connect with a few of the people you see. Something will catch your eye, something will hold your attention, whether it's an outrageous outfit, a charming toddler, a handsome stranger, an unintentional vignette at a coffee house, or just the person walking opposite you, who meets your eye as your paths cross.

This day, there are a few fellow pedestrians. I am taking pictures, caught up in my own agenda, but aware of some of the activities going on peripherally. On the museum lawn is a young couple, relishing the fading daylight and each other's company. Some young men play a game of pickup football. Workers are putting up Christmas decorations, lights and bows and wreathes, shouting instructions from the ground up the ladder - "A little higher, more to the right." A few workers of the lawncare staff are raking ginkgo leaves, the golden carpet that I'd shuffled through an hour earlier. There aren't many leaves left on the trees now. A few holdouts, but most have fallen to the ground, have been swept away by rakes and winds, gathered up in corners, along building walls, and in gutters. One of the best sounds of fall is the crunch of leaves under my feet, and the rustle of the leaves as they are moved this way and that by the winds. Sometimes they seem to have a direction in mind, like the birds that are flocking, gathering in the trees along the creek. A large gust blows from behind me, sending leaves swirling in front of me along the path. After a pause a different wind blows them back again, as though the previous orders have been rescinded.

From across the lawn I watch the lawncrew start throwing gingko fruits at each other. A messy, smelly game, and I am glad that I am far away from their antics, as they chase each other across the lawn to adminster the perfect shot. The work day is drawing to a close and their enormous job, gathering the leaves that fall on this huge lawn, is work that deserves to be ended with a little fun. I notice the shadows getting longer as the sun slips away, the shadow of the tree I sit under is creeping up the hill. How quickly the day ends now! One minute it is afternoon, the next, dusk. The light seems to get thicker. It's as though the rays are working harder at the end of the day, trying to cover as much of the earth as they can before the darkness is complete.

Along with the sun, some flowers are trying to extend the season. Each bush seems to have a few stalwarts left, tiny, valiant points of color in the overwhelming blanket of greys and browns. Against one protective wall is a rose bush, with some buds and blooms still fresh. Some hydrangeas have dried on their stalk, leaving shells of brown where color once was. These are beautiful, too, and are more fitting to the scene than the rosebush. I feel like a discoverer in either case.

As the sun sinks lower, the rays pick out the spiders' webs that before were invisible. A patch of grass shimmers as the wind stirs the blades, causing the tiny silken threads to glisten with the reflection. There are benches looking toward the west, out over the creek, at it's bridges and fountains. Down the hill, a girl has set up a chair and is crouched, sketching it and it's lingering shadow. She is alone, separated from the bustle of activities, from the traffic that rushes over the bridge, from the speed of other people's lives. I take a picture to remember this girl who's stillness is so similiar to my mindset. She doesn't know that at the top of the hill I am standing, soaking in the last rays.