The weather was beautiful yesterday, and I took advantage of it by raking leaves in the back yard for a couple of hours. It was thoroughly enjoyable. The smell of the leaves reminds me so much of childhood: every fall, there were giant piles of leaves into which we would fling ourselves from off of the swingset. Swing, swing, higher and higher, until finally *release* and arc and fall into the leaf pile. The leaves were earthen-scented, vaguely damp (with the occasional slug -- shudder) yet oftentimes still crunchy. Maple, oak, chestnut. Leaves, leaves.
The leaves here in the southwest lack that damp earthen-ness of those in the northeast. They are, nevertheless, quite satisfactory. They gather up against rock walls and in the dense desert shrubbery. They crunch underfoot. (A few autumns ago before Cherished Friend moved to his own northern corner of the desert, there would occasionally be an opportunity to shuffle through the leaves on the walking path we would take. I always liked to do so.). Leaves, leaves.
The leaves of autumn are bittersweet. Still, they are lovely.
Tiny Dog is intimidated by the leaf pile.