Tag Archive | leaves

Autumn day

Today’s post (which was actually supposed to have been last Wednesday’s post) is taking awhile. Numerous interruptions, various other commitments, and I have come to terms with the fact that it’s not going to be ready for today. So, in order to prove that I am still alive and not taking another unannounced hiatus, I took some pictures of autumnal type things around the yard.

One of three scraggly old apple trees

One of three scraggly old apple trees

Moss and ferns growing on the branches of the apple tree

Moss and ferns growing on the branches of the apple tree

Just a few of the many, many oak leaves in our yard

Just a few of the many, many oak leaves in our yard

Acorn on the patio

Acorn on the patio

See you later this week!

French Friday #51: L’Automne

La rivière s’écoule avec lenteur. Ses eaux
Murmurent, près du bord, aux souches des vieux aulnes
Qui se teignent de sang ; de hauts peupliers jaunes
Sèment leurs feuilles d’or parmi les blonds roseaux.

Le vent léger, qui croise en mobiles réseaux
Ses rides d’argent clair, laisse de sombres zones
Où les arbres, plongeant leurs dômes et leurs cônes,
Tremblent, comme agités par des milliers d’oiseaux.

Par instants se répète un cri grêle de grive,
Et, lancé brusquement des herbes de la rive,
Étincelle un joyau dans l’air limpide et bleu ;

Un chant aigu prolonge une note stridente ;
C’est le martin-pêcheur qui fuit d’une aile ardente
Dans un furtif rayon d’émeraude et de feu.

Jules Breton

The river flows slowly by. Its waters
Murmur, near the bank, to the old alder stumps
Stained with blood; tall yellow poplars
Sow their golden leaves among the blond reeds.

The gentle wind swirls across
Its clear silver ripples, leaving dark areas
Where the trees, dipping their canopies and cones,
Tremble, as though shaken by thousands of birds.

Here and there repeats the shrill cry of the thrush
And, launched briskly from the river grass,
A jewel-like shimmer in the clear blue air;

A piercing song holds a strident note;
It’s the king fisher which flies on an earnest wing
In a fleeting ray of emerald and fire.

To be fair, these pictures are from my river, this morning; not France. But they fit the poem so well!

Foggy morning on the river

A few of the trees are starting to turn. I love the spots of orange highlighted by the green all around. This morning I looked out the window and saw that fog had settled into our little pocket here along the river. It was cool and misty outside and still very quiet when I went out to take the pictures. Perfect fall morning.