The Bones of November

Once I’ve settled down and admitted that summer is gone, I start to appreciate November. Everything has been stripped bare, down to the bark and down to the streambed, so I can see things that are usually veiled behind leaves or under the water. Nature is exposed, its bones and structure more obvious and more easily admired. Soon, snow will cover everything, so there’s just a short period to admire the landscape in its elemental form.

The grasses of summer, now golden, are still standing, not yet flattened by snow and wind. Everything seems alert, as if waiting for winter to descend. Ice is forming on the ponds, a keen translucent blackness

On the St. Vrain River in Wild Basin last week, not only wasn’t there any snow (except in pockets of shade) but the creek still ran effusively, with enough energy to spray water into the air, as if it were spring, and life was just beginning, not soon to be winter.

And yet the creek is low enough that I can see what’s usually hidden under water, like the creek bed sculpted by decades of rushing water, now exposed to the sunlight (left).  With the water down, I can stand on the rock, almost feel the stone ripples.

And I can see the very beginnings of the creek becoming frozen. For now, ovals of ice are forming on top of rocks, like ice hats, and icicles are lingering where the water is falling slow enough, getting longer each day as it gets colder.

With the foliage gone, I notice more the boulders, can see more clearly their shapes and heft, how they dominate these mountain forests, how they interact with the trees, forming some mutual partnerships.

Everything is open, naked, vulnerable. The aspens are like dancers, their arms open, twisting and turning in some still-life dance, their branches silhouetted against the boulders or the sky. If I had time, I would mentally trace each limb of each tree and delight in each movement. In the stark autumn light, the aspen trunks gleam. By the creek, the red willow branches spread out their thin branches, catching the last light of the day (above).

I want to hold that light, even as it slips away.

Comments

[Pat Doyle]

That was lovely Kathy. You make me want to be there to see for myself.

[sally]

I really liked your way of describing all of that, your choice of words really excited my mind and soothed it at the same time. Very Good!!

[Julene]

This is gorgeous writing, Kathy, so keenly observed, surprising, and original. (The alert grass, the ice hats on the rocks in the creek, the boulders' dominance, the aspens' still-life dance.) As always, it makes me want to be there in the way you are there. I wish to learn to slow down and look.

[Springman]

Your picturesque writing is as wonderful as your photography. Maybe you'd like to join us at World Bird Wednesday. This is one great blog!
http://pineriverreview.blogspot.com/

[forex exchange]

Simple and sweet. I’m thinking of starting another blog or five pretty soon, and I’ll definitely consider this theme. Keep ‘em coming!