The colors first began to shift nearly two months, but despite their early start, there remains a remarkable amount of green upon the land. The mountains, of course, are reaching peak color now, the bright gold aspen line extending the length of their slopes, like stripes of sun upon their strong and ancient shoulders. But most of the peaks will be green even through the cold months to come, if the darker raw-emerald hue of winter piñon and juniper rather than their softer summery shades.
Down here at the old mountains’ feet, it takes a bit longer for the changes to show themselves clearly. As always, they begin not here, precisely, but on the far side of the road, among the stand of old cottonwoods. Eventually, small swatches of gold will touch the willows here and there, then the elm at the entrance. The small maple will be next, turning slowly at first, still more green than red . . . until one morning, we awaken to an entire tree washed the color of deep red wine.
It is not only the trees, either: The stands of wildflowers and creeping vines that feed the bees and butterflies and birds have all joined in on this dance, eagerly trading green modesty and subtlety for flashier garb. The berries on the vines have turned scarlet and purple, the leaves now crimson, crisp and fluttery in the fall winds. They are fire and flame on the face of the latilla fence, searing in color but cool to the touch.
Beyond the road, much of what yesterday was yellow will today be turning a soft coppery brown. We have been blessed in recent days with weather that is extraordinarily unlike this season in this place, but very much like the Octobers of my own homelands: punctuated by passing storms, swaddled in soft night rains and rocked by winds that bring the leaves cascading down like bright early snow.
On this particular morning, the clouds hang low, wrapping the land in a soft gray blanket of fog. It will lift soon enough, although not, perhaps, in time to see the Father Sun rise from his slumber to begin his fast-shortening journey across the sky. He will make his presence known before long, however, turning the overhead sky near-cobalt, touching the face of the aspens with his golden glow.
Here, our aspens remain almost entirely green; they are always the last to surrender to the inexorability of winter. Their brothers and sisters beyond the road give up much earlier, but the stands in this particular place believe in hanging on to every inch of summer, every leaf of green, as long as possible. Still, yesterday’s sudden damp cold will soon seep into their young arboreal bones, bringing with it a dose of reality: At some point, this last dance must end; winter must soon come, and it will.
When it does, our aspens will at last follow the others of their clan, donning fire as their leaves turn in the winds: bright yellow becomes brilliant gold; a half-turn, and they are the orange-red of the flames themselves; another half-turn, and they wear molten copper that fast becomes the warm brown of earth.
It’s a reverse metamorphosis of sorts, the butterfly returning to its cocoon to hibernate until the air is once again safely warm, but before it vanishes in the face of the snows, it spirals in one final whirling dance of blazing color, blankets and shawls and fringes of fire.
~ Aji
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