Carpets of Rust

You may recall my post from a few weeks ago, Excruciating Apathy, and the sort of day where this apathy strikes the most. Yesterday was one of those days. I was walking around the college campus literally expecting to see a unicorn poke its pointy head out from around a corner.

In terms of scenery, yesterday was perfect. A thick fog heavily draped itself around everything outside, and once the sun had risen, shafts of liquid yellow hung suspended in it, waiting where the sun had left them lying between the trees. There were carpets of rust everywhere I looked, and bare branches defiantly challenged clear sky escaping from the fog. Here and there, a few hopeful trees clung on to their leaves, lifting arms filled with color high into the air. As the sun hit them, the leaves turned to flames, lighting the trees from within. The evergreens stood stolidly by, gaunt and stark but ever so graceful. When the fog burned off, it left a ghost of itself to waft through the crisp, cold, clear autumn air.

I love the Northwest.