Fall Dorado

On the mountainsides the aspen flash into golden plumage, while down along the Rio the cottonwoods seem reluctant to convert to their umber phase. Surprisingly, this year many cottonwoods dare to challenge in their spiciest mustard hues. In response, a few aspen casually flaunt intense pigments of bronze, crimson and maroon.

The quakies’ staging is better, too. They mingle and mass high on sun-washed slopes against a dark background of pine and fir, visible for miles in every direction, their lustrous chorus a denial of finite life. The cottonwoods wander morosely along the Rio’s sunken course, a somber procession of seasonal leave-taking.

As in every other year, the aspen take the prize.

It is on this golden glory that I now turn my back.

I’m headed east, to visit good friends: the Otter and his wife in St. Louis and the Farmer and the Belle in Hattiesburg. I’d hoped to extend my itinerary to my siblings in Georgia and Florida, but unanticipated vehicle repairs and shockingly expensive new tires have taken a big bite out of the budget.

Ah well.