They say the colours should always be seen in the sun, against the sort of clear, clean blue sky that only autumn brings. But I have a soft spot for the rainy days, when the leaves are muted and cloaked in mist and wispy traces of cloud drift up from the hillsides as if from Indian campfires of old.
But the rain hastens the falling of the leaves, so we have to enjoy it while we can.
Of course the best leaves are always in places where you can't take pictures - along Route 219, the motorway down from Buffalo there are clumps which could only have been arranged by a master artist: vivid red alongside gold, alongside fading green, alongside burgundy.
Back on the country lanes, the Aberdeen Angus cows and their calves (yes, they were born in late summer) dot their sloping meadow.
On the high, steep road over the hill called Chapel Hill, the last hill before our valley, there are pickup trucks already parked outside the wooden huts they call hunting camps around here. "Early bowhunting" deer season starts today. Well, each to their own.
Over on the downward side of the hill, an ugly, dilapidated house went for auction a couple of months ago. Suddenly it's not there any more, the foundations looking somewhat blackened. I wonder what happened?
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