At the rock in the meadow above my home, the Poke berries have lost their purple sheen that delighted my eye. They are dried and wrinkled like raisins. The yellow flowers of goldenrod have faded to brown. Little balls of fuzz cover the branches, each holding dozens of seeds. Like miniature dandelions they long to hitch a ride on the wind, settle down where they will grow into new plants.
The Maples and Dogwood along the road have dropped their red leaves, just as Sweet Gum, Tulip Tree, and others have dropped their gold. Only blackberry vines grace the land with a tinge of red.
Thanksgiving night, the sky was clear. Orion pursued Taurus the bull. The three stars of his belt pointed upward toward Aldebaran, fiery red eye of the bull, and downward toward Sirius, the dog star. Pleiades preceded them all. The air felt like ice, a small price for such beauty.