Fall

Today, fall announced itself in such an un-Northwesterly way.  Not soft drizzles and slowly turning leaves; instead, driving rain and hail, explosive bursts of yellow and red, chill winds.  What little summer we've had, and no real Indian Summer, all gone.  Grey days ahead.

I wandered in woods last weekend.  Foraged mushrooms (I love that word "foraged.")  Fried them up with butter, lemon and garlic; Ann served them (hesitantly) in an autumn casserole.  Foraged -- like getting away with something on Mother Nature -- a guilty pleasure.

Here's a poor haiku for October on Mercer Island.  (Very poor haiku my poet sister will likely find.)

      Yellow leaves drift down
      to blanket slumbering roots
      now dreaming of spring

A good friend, an expert on things Japanese, announced bad news on this blustery day; grey days ahead for him, too.  But I hold fast to that promise of spring for both of us.

We lit a fire tonight. 
Ann just entered the room and announced -- not knowing what I was writing -- "I love wearing wool and heavy shoes." 
One has to be a bit melancholic to love fall and winter in cozy Pacific Northwest.