And if, perchance, I miss a pile, the Machinist dutifully reminds me of it. He doesn't say anything; he calls my name, and then he turns his head towards the pile and uses his eyes that say to me "Helen, aren't you going to march through that pile of leaves and kick them until they are all over the place..."
Yeah. I know these things. I can read him.
|Fairy lights strewn through the trees in Civic Central|
|The Machinist Walks On|
(Don't slip on the fallen acorns, Machinist!)
|This is how my skin feels in winter. But... it doesn't look as beautiful|
|Acorn Melange. I love these short stumpy acorns. Fat and bulbous.|
|Oak leaves never cease to make me smile. Oh, and one solitary elongated acorn. Can|
you spot it?
|Our shadows as we stand together on the bridge that links Civic to Commonwealth Park -|
where Floriade is held each year.
|The paved circle as you walk off the bridge with a reminder of where you are. Knowing|
where you are is always good. At least I think so.
|Built up beds in preparation for Spring plantings.|
|More built up beds. I call this "black gold"|
|See how the creeper moves in? And takes over?|
|"Oak is everywhere....everywhere you look around..." tra la la|
(To be sung to the tune of "love is in the air" by John Paul Young)