November hails the arrival of the final quince count for the year. The quinces are ready to be picked: their time, like themselves, is ripe.
So there we are - a nice enough final count of two. Two very high up, not sure how I can reach them to pick them, but goodly looking quinces. I am happy with this outcome.
At this time the leaves on the trees are starting to turn into their autumn colours. The remaining green lurks around the stem in what feels like a last ditch attempt to reverse the fact that they are now failing in their duty to feed the leaves. The yellow wash of death seeps down from the tip along the red line, the red spine that glows a little stronger every day before it finally winks out. There will be a moment when the stem and branch disconnect. For a while the leaf does not notice, it sits there still in situ thinking about not very much, it's mind a blank as if the satellite has just dipped out of range. Then a breeze, a tiny breezelet of a breeze, makes the disconnection real and the leaf falls. Such is autumn, such is fall.
More followed trees can be found here stewarded by Squirrelbasket
Take care and be kind.