I adore the backyard path (that may be stretching it a bit) that I can easily take when the mood strikes me, leading me to another world in minutes.
Bright blue November sky, the background setting to late autumnal tales written sky-high in the trees.
Stories that are simply lost into the wide open air,
Their wild and withered pages reaching out to the wind,
craving to be turned, like the pile of classics stored on the shelf
for reading later that you never seem to get to.
And something wholly unexpected too, ...up in high branches, tucked safely between a highway of crisscrossed sticks and branches, a beautiful nest is spied, belonging not to the southern flown winged bird, but a sleeping wasp colony. I've never seen one so big or so close, so perfectly spun like cotton candy, and intricately woven together, bathed in a background of yellow leaves still clinging to the tree.
Sunset by the river and through the trees.
No matter which way you see it, sheer beauty.
It happens every day, this passing of the light baton,
Though sadly, I miss most of them.
When I live in Walden, I will watch them all.
