Observations (in the raw)
Brief, intermittent rains cross the valley this morning. The slight moisture mixes with downed leaves to create a pungent leafy smell. Fall has draped the desert. There are not many trees here that change. Mostly, at this altitude, it is evergreens: junipers and piñons. The transplants who have settled here have brought in a few deciduous ones, though. It seems everyone is from somewhere else and has a need to carry along a few memories of once lived lives. Eastern trees and green lawns dot the West as a testament to this.
The two aspens out back are turning yellow. The locust, too. They are small trees, somewhat stunted, but they provide just enough of a visual change for the season to sink into one's bones. Leaves turning seems important for the soul. And the morning chill naturally pulls us inward.
Fall is no doubt a season for the senses. Probably the reason so many tout it as their favorite. It's the respite from summer's heat and the forewarner to winter's cold. It's a little stopping off place, a chance to reflect. It's a break.
Three incredibly orange pumpkins sit on the back porch and watch.
Pat Greenwell is an artist. A painter and sometimes poet, he has been searching the New Mexico desert for a couple of years now, looking for lost possibilities and probable intentions.
"...mostly stream-of-consciousness stuff, you know...