I'm watching the horizon for hot air balloons. It's the first year since 9-11 that the tiny, municipal airport has allowed the fall festival to launch from its lone ridge-top runway. My house sits atop an adjacent ridge to its north, mountaintop neighbors together greeting the dawn before it dips into the valleys where the mists now rise off the rivers and lakes.
Although no longer glowing with the fluorescence of spring's kiss, the foliage is still fully green. It now carries the dullness that precedes its shift into the autumnal palette: aged yet majestic in the face of its looming death, knowing that it will soon blaze in a spectacular display of dying glory. In a month, six weeks if the temperatures are mild and the winds calm, every branch will be naked and quivering.
I begin to see the arcs of the balloons peek above the trees, their bright colors a preview of the days to come, and I hear the woosh of a couple dozen fires echoing off the surrounding hillsides as they rise. The percussive symphony is rhythmic--yet random--and oddly comforting. It sings to my soul, "Rise!"
Although no longer glowing with the fluorescence of spring's kiss, the foliage is still fully green. It now carries the dullness that precedes its shift into the autumnal palette: aged yet majestic in the face of its looming death, knowing that it will soon blaze in a spectacular display of dying glory. In a month, six weeks if the temperatures are mild and the winds calm, every branch will be naked and quivering.
I begin to see the arcs of the balloons peek above the trees, their bright colors a preview of the days to come, and I hear the woosh of a couple dozen fires echoing off the surrounding hillsides as they rise. The percussive symphony is rhythmic--yet random--and oddly comforting. It sings to my soul, "Rise!"
1 comment:
You're so beautiful.
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