Just beyond this line of mostly small sycamores, the James River runs south–wide and bluff-edged.
In summer, this would have been a very different scene. The leaves that have fallen from the trees now liter the temporary high-water puddles. Light from the Â late-afternoon sky and riverbank beyond–and not just the variegated trees of autumn–reflects off the still water.
I miss the leaves for a while. Then I grow accustomed to the trees undressed and a more expansive sense of place you can only know in winter.
And when the leaves come to take over again, I resent it a little as a kind of visual intrusion.
To everything there is a season.