User:CarrieBerg/A Taste of Autumn

A Taste of Autumn in an Emerald City

The sky is a particularly fine shade of blue. Not as rich as summer, not as pale as winter, not as fresh as spring. It is a turquoise that perfectly suits the trees, the leaves, the colors. One would almost believe that the earth dresses herself to match the sky. Fanciful thoughts, but this is true: the only time of year the sky is this particular shade of blue is autumn.

The leaves have not quite changed here. Oh, there are touches of red, more from the mulberry colored leaves of the Chinese Maple or other such trees. There are touches of yellow too. Some from the leaves, but most from the leftover flowers of summer. But there, on that wall, you can see the wildfire riot of color as the ivy sets the wall ablaze. Or over there. Those trees are competing with each other over the latest fall fashions. It is only the fall fashions that matter to them.

But not all the trees are competing. Just the young ones. And the maples. The birch trees still hold on to their glorious leaves of summer. Sparkling like emeralds in the afternoon sun. And the aspens, and the rowan, though their tastes tend to run a little more toward topaz as autumn progresses. The grape vines are yellowing too. Long past the days of bearing fruit, they wistfully recall their once laden tendrils, letting their burdens of leaves float free.

Ah, one can’t forget the berries! Why, it is hard to walk anywhere are not run into them! The blackberries are a tenacious lot. They refuse to give into the autumn sun. They cling, shriveled and dry, to their thorny vines, snaring all who pass with their sickly-sweet scent. Even the birds no longer touch those fermented treats, knowing well what drunkenness is in store. But the blackberries are small and black. They may catch the nose, but they fail to catch the eye. It is the scarlet berries of the holly or the rowan that catch the eye.

No one can miss their brilliant red berries. Ah, the clusters hanging off of the rowan, liberally sprinkling the ground with festive color. But even their magnificence pales next to the glistening ruby red of the holly. Surrounded by prickly leaves of deepest green, these berries cannot help but shine like miniature suns. They dare you to pick one, but it is best if you don’t. For your blood will well up as red as the berries as the thorny leaves snag your skin.

There are other colors too. The oranges of dahlias, the whites of chrysanthemums, the blues of hydrangea and rosemary, the odd pink of a late-blooming sweetpea. But none can match the splendor of the violet aster. Not big, the flowers are hardly larger than your thumb. But they are found in the most unusual of places with the most unusual of colors. Up there, between those rocks on a wall. Over there, almost underfoot on the path. Their feathery petals catch your eye immediately. Calling you to touch them, to savory their softness.

But the main color, surprisingly enough, is green. The rich green of the grass, still growing strong. Not dried to a pale yellow and shriveled from the heat. The ivy that decided red isn’t its best color, which is most of it. Other than that odd wall or two, most of the ivy is still a deep, deep green, rivaling the holly with its waxen luster. And of course, there are the evergreens. They shed no lively leaves, but stay a sedate green, towering over the scene as if they are forest wardens watching for fires.

But they can’t control all the trees, and some fires have started. The wild riot of colors is more spectacular here. For when you turn a corner, there! A tree ablaze of autumn! Framed by green, hidden among the ivy and evergreens. For a jewel shines brightest when it is alone and not surrounded by others. So it is with the maples of Seattle. Rare rubies or topaz found with delight when passing through the Emerald City.

.:.:.:.:.:.

This was written my first autumn living here in Seattle. I was impressed by all the greenery - and I still am. I guess there are benefits to having rain nine months out of twelve.