A most efficient descriptive term. Compact. Final. Brutal.
Yet it evokes many things.
Mornings when the air smokes. Mornings when scents are sharp as glass. Gritty as dug earth.
Days when light sifts down like filings from a rasp that smooths the sun.
When leaves are shed like broken armour and shuffle like brittle metal beneath your feet.
Or like the sush-sush of lapping water.
Days when there are voices in the wind.
And here, where I live, colour that defies any photographer or painter to truly capture the subtleties of shade and tint - of honey and butter and saffron, and every tone in between - of poplar and birch and beech and willow. Elm and oak and alder, walnut, chestnut, rowan and ash.
And that's to ignore the sumach and maple reds that flare from pink to deep and incandescent.
And, always, the flocks of small birds scooped and tossed against a gray silk sky.
Always, a leaving, a mourning of geese.
For Snippit Paparazzi:
Self-abusive agent Nathan Bransford is running a First Paragraph Challenge/Contest.
Doesn't close until tomorrow night.
Warning: The consumption of alcohol may leave you wondering what the hell happened to your underwear.