Fall Words: Notes on the Season from Nature Writers

Autumn Evening. Dusk comes early and the evening breeze whisperss in the newly fallen leaves. The Dipper hangs low on the northern horizon annd Vega is almost overhead, still dimmed by the lingering glow of sunset an hour ago. No bird sings. No katydid rasps. Sere corn blades rustle in the roadside field. The drought-low brook creeps, almost silent across the meadow, livened only by the glint of strengthening starlight in its lingering pools.

One walks, seemingly alone with the night and the universe. But as the dusk deepens the eight-hoot call of the barred owl is heard from the far hillsdie. Then silence again, and one's own footsteps in the leaf-strewn road. A farm dog barks in the distance and on the highway down the valley a truck growls into a lower egar for the long grade over the hilltop. And now the silent stars gleam beyond the thinning treetops.

The owl eight-hoots again and one knows he is not alone, even in the starlit immensity of the autumn night. --Hal Borland in Twelve Moons of the Year

October 6, 5:43 p.m. The first burning touch of frost has brought an end to the growing season. Winterberry thickets are emblazoned with abundant scarlet fruits, all the more brillant against maroon-black leaves that will soon be shed. Cinnamon ferns are browned and curled, and as I brush past royal ferns, bleached leaflets shower from their stems to float on black water.--David M. Carroll in Swampwalker's Journal, the 2001 John Burrough's Award winner.

An Autumn Saunter. After dark, as we looked back towards the head of Little Yosemite, a belt of cloud appeared drawn across from wall to wall that shimmered with lightning in every pore.

The autumn tints of the Rubus, maple, and wild cherry were most enchanting, the latter covering the banks of Illilouette with a mist of yellow. We reached Snow's weary with delight, and the Nevada sang us asleep. -- John Muir in John of the Mountains, edited by Linnie Marsh Wolfe.

The Great Flyway. That evening while I poured over the maps beneath a lamp and Nellie, with guidebooks and a pocket magnifying glass, sought the idenity of an unknown plant from the bluff top, the dusk became windless. The thermometer dropped. The stars shone with a steely glitter and lonely train whistles carried far through the frosty air. And, moment by moment, this sudden cold at the end of the day was working in the darkness, splashing new, intense colors across the already painted forests of the north. -- Edwin Way Teale in Autumn Across America