Real Music, Living Color

The curtain of the night's fog hung on for it's last few minutes, trying it's best to blunt the day's entrance. This dawning is rich in muted things: muffled birdsong, the pale glow of light in the quiet woods, the near silent breeze which arrives to send leaves of softest yellow flying. Later, if the rains hold off, there will be glimpses of red and dark orange, but now we run the hills bathed in pastel yellow and the odd deep green that is only seen in November's slanting light.

There is purple here and there, little pieces of night still clinging to the branches, it's the purple of Irises and Springtime floating through the air. The eye denies seeing it but it is there.

I took my headsets off to listen: footfalls fading in the dampness,a muffled crackling off to the left in the painted forest and my own breathing in relief of making the top. Mornings like these make me wonder why I even I even wear the damned things. I mean, I love the music, it sometimes is the only thing that is driving me on, that and the hope that I will be running behind someone that I can keep up with, but hearing the little sounds of the morning, that's real music.
...The year spins towards winter now. These leaves will be gone, or almost gone, by week after next and we shall be on December's doorstep. Why does it seem that autumn, or fall, you choose the word you like the most, seems year after year to hold it's fire and then burst and die? There are some Springs like that, Springs which bypass March and April and don't put any dressing on until well after May Day, but they are rare. Autumns appear more and more like Fourth of July fireworks shows, a steady, but not too showy display to whet the appetite, and then a short urgent cascade of spectaculars.

There is more to see up the road, more days with curtains of fog hanging over them, the tree at the corner signals the year is turning and we hustle towards the horizon.