Yesterday afternoon, I went to the cemetery again. Some of the sugar maples were ablaze in all manner of yellows, oranges, and crimsons; a last hurrah for the deciduous leaf before it makes way for snowy months of skeleton trees. The leaves were falling every minute, now and then startling squirrels in the undergrowth. An occasional scolding whistle drew immediate attention to the blue jays; their ultramarine hue now vivid against the warm-colored leaves. Chickadees, ever so social and busy, have returned to the cemetery. There are mallards in the ponds again, and a wood duck was strutting about in what still remains of his summer finery. The robins are still around, but they are lying low; the time of singing has passed. I found one beneath a shrub, silhouetted against an illusory dome of grass.
