These few pieces were created a year or so ago, before the advent of this blog. As such they are out of their season, but they should be here nonetheless. They share this post, but they are individuals.
Ankle-deep in yellow leaves in the park, I slosh along. They rustle and crunch; I might be deep in the forest if not for the bricks underneath. Cold crisp air and brilliant leaves make this gray day anything but.
The river, blanketed in fog. From the bridge the sky is clear, but the world below does not exist. To the south, the rail bridge pokes through the clouds like a floating tower. To the east, Mount Hood rides a grey blanket, and stands stark against the orange sky behind. The edges of the world glow with the hint of sun to come.
Autumn in Oregon. Vivid red trees line the streets, their leaves like confetti scattered on the ground, kicked up under my boots. The air like mint, icy hot, zinging clean. Sun and rain all at once, then nothing but red leaves gently rustling against the gray sky.
A sun break. Suddenly the world is bright like summer. The air is cold but the yellow sun warms from the inside. Hatless, blind, I walk out in the chill breeze just to feel the light on my face; turning back a few blocks later I am warm through, my coat open, having second thoughts about the sweater. The rain returns while the sun shines still. The sky is such an odd color, yellow and grey at once. Looking out the window, we see flying rain, and the blue sky and sunset in the west. Red and yellow leaves swirl down the street like a scene from a movie. It’s autumn, all right.
Crossing the Steel Bridge, the sky is gray, all clouds from west to south to east. But the Fremont Bridge glows white in a sudden sunbeam, the red of Broadway leaps out against blue water and green trees. Brightness against the gray. Such color in this city! Red brick, gleaming glass, towers of black and white and pink flash brilliantly in the sun, and twinkle with blinking bulbs after dark. The skyline sparkles from the river, the sun setting behind it in grays and blues one night, oranges and pinks the next. The river is flat, still, cold and filled with light like a mirror, broken momentarily as the wind blows ripples across it, and then silent again.
Brittle cold, dry as powder. The sky is a sharp blue, clear and pure as a glass ball hanging on a tree. A single contrail marks it like a streak of dust, ready to blow away in a moment. The mountain stands against the horizon like a cutout, sharp-edged and dark. Orange sky fades to pink, to white, to blue, too perfect to be real.